fill your eyes

For no reason in particular I share with you this passage from The Englishman's Boy by Guy Vanderhaeghe

The Englishman’s boy wasn’t a smiler. Even with the moon standing brave and blue between the funnels of the Yankton, the hard prairie stars glittering ice-chips, the boat rocking in the ebb and lull of the water, he did not treat himself to a smile, especially not when dancing. The quality like niggers and white trash like him to grin when entertaining. “Fly them heels, boy!” they shouted. He flew them. But he handed around no smiles. From the waist up he was rigor mortis, plank-stiff, arms nailed to his sides, poker-faced. But below the greasy pant legs flapped and bucked, the skinny legs jerked and twitched, the boots drummed the deck boards louder and louder. “Buck and swing!” the women cried, and the coins, white as frost, began to skip and bounce about the blurry boots. Around and around he spun, showing himself to the whole encroaching circle like a damn hurdy-gurdy girl, cutting licks and capers on the deck, faster and faster, outracing the wheeze of the mouth organ, the scrape of fiddle, outracing the faces looming dizzily at him against a background of dark water, dark sky, faces glaring white-hot in the light of kerosene lamps.

Fill your eyes, you sons of bitches. Throw your money. This poor whoreson’s a-dancing on your grave. Believe it.