Poems About Boobies

It occurred to me this week that I've been far too wistful and la-de-frickin'-da, and not sexy enough in my posts. And the lovely Annush made it clear: I am cutting down on my blog reading until people cheer up. Too many broken hearts, too many sappy posts.

Damn straight, sistah!

I told her I'd write a boobie post. And I am. Boobies plus some sex, sports, elephants and volcanos.

I thought I'd plagarize a few poets I enjoy, 'cause I like pokin' da fun. Sergei had his Fantasy Football Draft tonight and had the computer tied up, so I tried writing poetry longhand. HAH!!! I've totally forgotten how to do that. I have no creativity unless I'm sitting in front of a pc, typing my fingerprints off (which is pretty pathetic). But I banged out a bunch of stuff, okay, around midnight, so I'm not being especially politically correct, and yes, this is a long post, and suck it up! And yes, I was thinking outside my gender at how guys view boobies. Lovely, round, supple, sweet boobies. And sex, 'cause they're like, attached. So, anyway. All apologies to the poets mentioned here, I meant no offense. Only tittilation. (Get it? Tit? Oh, I'm a scream, admit it.)

5 Poems About Boobies And Stuff

With Apologies to Wm. Shakespeare:

Shall I compare them to two melons ripe?
Thou art well-stacked, like a wall of brick
Rough hands on my pants do wipe
And my crotch is getting mighty thick.

Sometimes too hotly my eyes burn
On your round fruit so sweet and perky
And in your cleavage cleft I yearn
To fill the space with my thick jerky

But thy eternal lust shall not be quenched
Nor lose the fire in your snoopy
Until my linen shirt be drenched
With sweat, and my briefs become quite droopy

So long as you are willing
And I am able
So long we'll screw
Under every dining table


With Apologies to Walt Whitman:

To the left and to the right
To the large and to the small
Those with uplifted nipples, the push of satin bound in wire
Those with soft cups, full of life and desire,
I say to one and all
I will eat thee 'ere I sleep,
And wake with dreams of boobly-oobly on my lips.


With Apologies to Mike Doughty (and sung to the tune of "27 Jennifers"):
("listen", under the Skittish/Rockity Roll section)

27 Pairs of Breasts

I had a dream of 27 pairs of breasts
15 B's, 8 Cs, and the Ds…the best
Hand on my bone, an'
Thrashin' and moanin'
The horniness stinks up the room

They could be the groupies my guy promised me,
I could be the Sex King now, yeah,
They could be the girlies in my chick posse
They could ring my king-ding-dong now, yeah

Signed autographs on 27 pairs of breasts
19 As, 3 Bs, I forget the rest
Still I'm so horned up
The cute ones phoned up
The only one here is my hand

Where are those groupies my guy promised me?
Where is my Sex King crown now?
Wonder what's on Playboy Channel teevee
Maybe just a Latin fantasy

27 pairs of breasts
27 pairs of breasts


With Apologies to ee cummings:

may I squeeze?, said he
if you please, said she

like this? said he
can't miss, said she

great rack!, said he
hook's in back!, said she

too rough? said he
not enough! said she

you're a tease, said he
on your knees, said she

want to fuck? said he
you're in luck, said she

lift your dress, said he
oh yes, said she

what's that?, said he
not a twat!, said she

it's a dick!, said he
yes, my prick, said (s)he

you're a dude?!, said he
don't be rude, said (s)he

b-b-but the breasts!, said he
saline's best, said (s)he

gotta go!, said he
now whoa!, said (s)he

look, your pole, said (s)he
hmmm
got a hole?, said he

you're cute, said (s)he
do I suit?, said he

wanna screw? said (s)he
bet I do!, said he


With Apologies to Biblical Scholars and Football Fans:

Song of Solomon (Solomon Jackson, Chicago Bears Fan)

O!, Daughters of the East (Coast), I pray you
And daughters of the Mid(West), take heed;
Daughters of the West (Coast), Arise!
Fear not the onlookers!
Run into the fields of grapes, and honey, and nard
And shed the confines of bras and camisoles!
Run! Run to he who awaits you
With cups and cups of beer,
Bread and cheese from the finest faraway ports
of Wisconsin,
Sheepskin blankets,
Cable television, and French ticklers.
Run to him who is your stallion,
Your field hand,
And a pretty nice guy.
Run! Jumpeth his bones,
And maketh him to lie down on the couch,
whereupon his merriment will arise
Like a goalpost,
And await your mounting,
but quickly,
for it is merely halftime.

O, his left hand will be under your ass,
and his right hand reaching the remote.
God be praised for football season!