Swelled, she'll bust out of that gown—
That is my fondest hope.
Love to look at mounts
With azimuth nipple slope.
She's no little girl;
She's got Dolly-good jugs I'd grope.

She gives dugsy titillation
With her fitting that's tight.
I think of mountaintop ranges:
Titty delight,
Titty delight,
Titty "D" sight.

Well-made woman. Swelled maid buxom.
Well-made woman, some zaftig bazooms (3x)
Climb up beauts buttes
Onto your boobs. . . .

I see your pair is churnin'.
Hills instill desire.
Split, they splay into firm Jujubes
Imprisoned now in Lycra.
Hike those mounds like free weights,
Each must top one stone.
Popped, they barge;
You topless are.
Never saw a woman
So well-toned (3x)
I'm swell-boned.

Moguls, mumpy-monster mamness!
Her freight twain, huge like well-stacked femme West.

Mamm'ry massif risin',
Mamm'ry Madre risin',
Ample Andes risin',
Her mammalias risin',
Ample Alps peeks risin',
Ample lechens risin',
Couple Catskills risin',
Tyrol'an tyts risin',
Rounded Rockies risin',
Milk-White Mountains risin',
Those poco, no's! risin'. . . .

Swelled, she busts out of that gown—
And the lactaters lope,
Like that moving mound
In Woody's "Know 'bout Sex" op[us].
She's no little girl;
She's got Dolly-good jugs, like Pope's
Pointy hat sitting on cranium
And then stickin' right
Up, each looks like mountain ranges.
Nifty this sight,
Titty delight,
Titty "D" sight.

Well-made woman, well made woman.
Gel-made woman. . . ?