Reading A Latin American Author

And I started to read some of his poetry and then I found that there was a little bit of a fandango, getting going in my hips then when I had read some more of him, my breasts began to sway in rhythm, to a sort of metered mambo and when I had read a few more lines my legs were straining toward farruca, although it seemed that my derriere was aiming more for flamenco, while my whole body was in a violent rage for tango And then suddenly, it was time to make dinner, so I had to stop reading him and content myself doing matachin on some habanera peppers and then doing a salsa jig all around the table And after a small cockroach appeared, drawn in by the savory smells, I did a quick paso-doble return, in perfect time upon his whiskers.