DON’T STOP THE MUSIC

Eagles_Of_Death

DON’T STOP THE MUSIC

This is for the punks and the pop divas.
This is for everyone who ever sang along:
enjoy your Eagles of Death Metal.
This is for the pirates and the producers:
fuck the noise, but don’t stop the music.
Dance till your Converse kicks fall to pieces.
This is for the mosh-pit and the VIP,
worlds apart but on a single mission:
to suck the last bit of marrow from the bone.
This is for the ravers and the metal-heads:
keep thrashing because once the music stops,
you may as well be dead.
This is for the bobos and the foodies in the Marais:
enjoy your gay bars and your 2 Many DJs.
This is for the loners and the cynics
who find that improbable place of worship,
six beers deep in the dark with no ear-plugs.
Enjoy the creepy doorman and the clipboard-bitch.
Enjoy the sticky shoes and dirty toilets.
Enjoy the list you never get on.
This is for the snares and the wah-wah pedals:
fuck the squares with their wartime medals.
This is for the PTSD survivors in platform shoes,
flashing belly-buttons at the BO18 in Beirut.
This is for Ibiza, Goa, and Black Rock City.
This is for the nectar of the damned,
but I say you’ve got it all wrong:
ours is not the nature of the damned,
just the dancers.
This is for the last-minute ticket to the Bataclan.
This is for the goths and the emo kids,
the ball-room dancers and the full-moon ravers;
speakeasies, jazz clubs, and white spats;
combat boots, safety pins, and prison tatts.
Make peace with your dead phone.
Get on that busted vélib and enjoy the ride home,
Enjoy the back seat of the vomit comet.
Enjoy your walk of shame.
Hell to pay Monday 8AM, but until then,
don’t stop the music, boys and girls,
or you may as well be dead.
This is for the secret dance parties
in the deserts of Iran and Afghanistan,
where the thought police can’t see you.
This is for the weekend warriors,
the night-crawlers, and the vampires.
This is for the right to sin.
The right to almost, but not quite, fall in.
This is for the right to do it wrong—
anything less, and we may as well be dead.
This is for the mother of all fat ladies
when she breaks into song:
enjoy, enjoy, enjoy.

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