Breasts, olé! Balls that juggsle [sic], peep an’ watch ’em sway:
mounds that seem to beckon, and they say:
“Yo, spy, peek, peep on breasts that sway!”

Bumptiously jump the mams untrapped, so loose and free.
’neath their shadow I hangker [sic] to be.
Oh, breasts that sway come jumpingly.

Eye these mammoth globes robbed of robes, “’ nays” AKA.
Some say something’s wrong with my songs RE: breasts that sway.

Breasts foray: jugs journey beneath the negligée.
How they need a place to hide away
is why I grieve at breasts vestées.

Eye these handsome aureoles—goal-worthy, I’d say.
Some say something’s wrong with my songs RE: breasts, olé!

Breasts that splay—love to see ’em as they go each way.
Shrouded in a place to hide away
is why I grieve at chest’s breasts’ stays.

Stumping me are the rasping gasps of prudery
as with Mather in mad century.
Goal: yesterday, it’s stumping me.

[alternate verse]
Stumping me are the rasping gasps of prudery—
mams I’d rather gather optic’lly—
So, yesterday’s not done, we see.

Why these glands are robed I have probed, Socratic way.
I think something’s wrong with the throng “Somatic, nay!”

Breasts in stays—plump, yet trumped, sans jump. . .grumpy dismay.
How I need to gaze untied nay-nays,
boast: “Bi-becleaved big breasts, olé!”

[alternate verse]
Breasts in stays—plump, yet trumped, sans jump; in dumps I stay
down. I’d knead to graze a bi-buffet,
toast: “Ply-’tween-teeth, swig breasts, au lait!”