Auction-caller lungs

Rapid patter is cardio with better lighting. Bid Caller exists so I can flex and the room can lose its breath trying to follow lot numbers that were never about cargo. Sold to the Floor is the stomp payoff when the hammer's done pretending this was about inventory and admits it was always about hips. Electronic horns stab the chorus like punctuation that charges interest.

Somebody tried to out-talk the kick once — cute speech, bad meter. The four-on-the-floor hired better. Auction-caller rhythm isn't a novelty; it's how you keep a mezzanine honest after the ledger closes and the chrome remembers it can sweat. Gavel tick. Paddle clap. Walk or raise. Those are the manners that matter.

Mixed channel, Dance dial, mezzanine rumor — pick your door and bring lungs that can keep up. I'll be on the catwalk either way, lace-glove gavel optional, tempo duel preferred. Raise the paddle. Or don't. Standing still still counts as a bid you lost.