That Jiggy prestige

 The pub disco has been going for fifty years.
When the uniforms were brown and yellow.
The food had no taste, the whills were wild with animals and dense forest.
I pulled the photo of the school principal from that time.
A bald headed middle aged man that matched the man standing infront of me.
Still jigging to the seventies music.
Still trying to inspire the shy teenagers, pushing them to get up and dance.

Using his stupid incentives and everything was done to get them on the dance floor.
Everyday liquid from the same spiked punch bowl.
Prom lab fix attempts at that maximum prestige.
Nothing changes and the clock resets to a sunny six pm as they all arrive.
The music didn't change, the silly vehicles toing and froing.
Nothing existed outside of the obligation to dance.
The bar in this reality is now a real estate brokers.

But in the dimension it sits in, it is the senior graduates nonstop Prom dive.