Softly, slyly, flute and drum begin to weave their net
Of notes; the slow seductive beat evokes the stomp of gypsy feet
Inside some smoky dim cantina, where a woman's silhouette
Is dancing with abandon to the pulsing, pounding theme
Picture a tiny kink in the old genetic spiral,
Or a microscopic speck that's bacterial or viral.
Now, suppose they say, to our dismay, that we've become immune
To drugs we once regarded as a miracle--a boon.