They, are the best.
My friends, I'm talking about breasts.
Man, I'm impressed,
With their shape, firmness,
And all the rest.
On her chest,
Believe me, I try my best.
Not to be a lech,
But I'm powerless,
When resisting temptations of...
Staring at her breasts.
There's really no contest,
For where my eyes get,
...it's just my luck,
To then get busted,
Staring at her bust,
And then I lose her trust,
Now she's real suspicious,
That I only think about what juts,
Out from, her chest,
Namely, her breasts.
At her bequest,
I want to be her guest,
To please make... a mess,
All over the top of those breasts,
Right on the crest,
Or directly after, a conquest,
I speak on, in jest,
Not to cause offence,
But perhaps because I'm jealous,
All that attention she gets,
For having breasts.
Have pressed their shapes into my consciousness,
Now on exposure to them my intellectual power plumm-ets,
Into an infinite regress,
Falling far, the IQ points down, as far as it gets,
And the only thing to land on, I have left,
A cushioning idea... the one about, breasts.
It may seem utterly meaningless,
But it is for these, that I quest,
Though it seems hopeless,
As women ussualy just think I'm a pest,
To say nothing about letting me undress,
Getting a closer look at,
Yeah... her breasts.
I say they're horrible monsters like the Loch-Ness,
And like Captain Ahab chasing the White Whale,
I too am obsessed!
By those comely breasts.
They threaten my equilibrium and wellness,
My imagination gives me no rest,
And it does pain me to confess,
For all my cerebral force on fire,
It is still my basest, but greatest desire,
To simply pull up a chair,
Sit myself down without a care,
So I could just, endlessly stare,
At what she has there.
Yet continual, imperishable and indiminishingly eternal zest,
To have a look over there, and gaze at her breasts.
Why I pick the out pieces from the notebook that I do, and blog them, is beyond me. And all this while, people keep reassuring me I'm really a nice guy deep down. Then I keep talking.
I remember emailing the great Steve Smart and telling him that I intend to singularly destroy Melbourne poetry when I get back, he said destruction was good. Maybe we needed more terms of reference? So blame him for my misbehaviour.