Arm-slung holder for boob “boulders” keeps from spillin’
out breast bastions into popped pendulous piles.
Double D’s egressing would be a refreshing
gawker’s scope, but it keeps them close-to-chest style.

(Sling of the no-fall binder)

Thing she’s wearing, so no baring charms with colder
nips if these were witch’s tits—thank god they aren’t!
Manly dreams have been wrought by big mammers
Guys just lie there, sometimes pry “there”
where they’re warned not to feel, arm-hung gropers,
as little nippers—keep those zippers up and armed.

Can’t bare globes of leche, which breaks my heart.

There’s no dispute—love to see ’em, mams like boulders.
Many artists put them into works of art.
Like Watteau in tableau “Nymph and Satyr”:
she just lies there while that guy stares
at her form—such appeal, charms, young “boulders.”
But spying’s done: palled mams won’t pop, titters won’t start