Having A Ball, At The Ball Poem by Daniel Tshibangu

Pupils are auto locking onto him, shooting various glances in all directions, bouncing back once, twice, thrice. He having dressed like a gentry man, hair glossed, faces given the touches of da Vinchi and vests tucked insulating degrees of confidence, poses.
Plump, ooze-oozing, active volcanoes creating lives, lives in the hands that breathed life to his flat performance, teasing the lips of women and challenging the pride of the men that coiled him. Stoves are heated in preparation for succulent aromas, later to be stored by squirrels. Dimples colored to teenage woe dress the hot passion of the scene. Thoughts rang echoing the halls of the ball admitting one of all universal truths: the fat man's fart is not heard by many but smelt by all.