Tanks for the mammaries,
They're cantilevered fine, though they're 39,
Please park 'em on my muzzle, let me nuzzle like a swine.
How lovely they are.

Tanks for the mammaries,
Great lactating balloons, winking like full moons,
In motion dip those bursting nips; you're cursed with big bazooms.
How lucky I am!

Many's the bra they've defeated
And many's the inches they've added.
They fell as they swelled; and unpadded,
They need no tugs, those giant jugs.

Thanks for the melons screen,
No sunburn red and sore, if they hover o'er
My prone corporeal form as they shade me at the shore,
Tanks loose--thanks so much!

Those tanks are a melon squeeze,
Untank 'em, let me purse up my lips and nurse,
Unbuckled, they; my buccal bay suckling succulent burse.
How lucky my tongue.

Thanks for the flimsy weave,
No lingerie or lace can hold them in place,
Oh how they jump when we hit bumps when in a tandem race.
They cause crashing cars.

When untied they do a thigh crawl,
Each had been a sideways steeple,
"High church," if you will; gawk, the people;
They'd love to buss this buxom bust.

Banked in the mammaries,
With stick squeezed entre "vous," darting through and through.
A kid, I dreamed of tittle seam, my lever 'tween the two.
Awling gland to wet you; cheered, I soak the two with dew.