During an elegant tango Mr. B
plunges headfirst into a table.
It was an accident, he says.

After the group breaks for a toast,
a waltz turns Mr. B’s eyes behind
his skull. He topples over a chair
some old maid left in the way.
I can’t see a darn thing, he says.

Finally Mr. B grabs his partner by
the waist with so much confidence
that not even he can believe it.
But there he goes. With the tightest
steps only a merengue could elicit,
Mr. B pinches the hard wood floor
with his big toes, but then
trips over its fresh lacquer.
His saber launches into the air
and shatters the ballroom chandelier
into a ghastly mélange of shards.
Violent glitter decorates the room,
and deforms his mortal enemies.
A message from the Count! he screams.