The dancing dragon
doesn't need a flagon
to get it flipping and flopping
happily out of it's lair
back there where his kin are gnashing and crashing
and he doesn't have a flair for gold rings on his claws
which would send him marauding —
he thanks his consciousness for that
since he needs nothing in the everything that's nothing
to make him dingie and singing
and flinging himself
like a twenty-foot salamander with wings
in a hip-hop of mystical love
for the mountain's simultaneous being
he's having a sweet requital of.