The museum’s doors were locked
The curator home for the night
The windows had become black
In the fading winter light

The halls echoed silent still
As the janitor put down his mop
Ceilings looked upon cold stone floors
While the temperature dropped

A strange electricity
Seemed to fill the air
The statues seemed positively alive
You could even swear

Picassos twirled with Donatellos
Rodins led the tango
Brancusis slithered, slipped, swayed
Making a lively fandango

The sculptures danced through the night
Leaving nary a trace of their antics
The clock approached the crepescule
Their rhythm became more frantic

As the fiesta reached a peak inside
The sun could just be seen
When dawn did break, it touched upon
No remain of what had been