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the dj beckons them to the club

holla’–it’s time to spin, bust your move

to the lawn, to the chamber, arms in the air

everyone: “forty-five! forty-five!”

remix…errrr, skidding a new track

deeper into the moment

feeling the bass

under lyrics of a lie

the dj is a master puppeteer

narci-sizing new moves on the dance floor

moshpit sashays towards the privileged, the popular

insurecting the dancers, a storm of Qed

follows the dj in a shameful

dystopian democracy disco

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