MAGIC music brought alive the hop-step
POLKA, but here these Poles were violent. A
SPURT of blood startled the dancers: someone
THREW a Szabla at the man who stole his girlfriend.  

BINGO! the would-be
CROOK with greased and
CURLY hair, aims his fist.
DRYLY the captain knows he’s champion in any
FIGHT; this captain of the
FINAL trip for the day on the
FJORD ferry, who stands aloof. The deck being wet, the youth slips and down the
HATCH he goes. The deck was somewhat
MOSSY, the captain admits to himself, smells somewhat
MUSKY, as of a deer in rut, or perhaps it has the
NUTTY scent of a jar not emptied from the pantry in a decade. The boy, below,
REACTs dully, like a performer in a dull
REVUE, or the dull
REVUE itself. He has no get up and go, and now he smells
RIPER than he did before, like a
ROWER out at sea too long, or a dancer doing the
RUMBA for four hours one night. He is merely seen as a
SERIF attached to some stronger part of a letter; he
SLUMPs where he stands and
SNIPEs at the captain imperturbable. He totters, rotates, this tourist-child, as a
TORUS does (I think – the word is new to me) and the
TWANG in his Aussie
VOICE is mostly a blur. This day is his
WORST.

[This is getting ridiculous: six days gone and no quordle poems done. Hence there are 24 words in the poem above.]