Friday, September 30, 2005

Poems About Bottoms

I know, I know, I teased y'all that this week's poems would be about a certain body part that rhymes with 'carolina', but butts is really what got me today.

Butts. Bottoms. Gluteous Maximus. The Double Goose.

It's getting cold here in Meeee-chi-gun, and my tossing and turning in bed leads to a lot of spooning with Sergei. I press my bottom to his handsome naked form, and that's just a slice of nirvana right there.

This morning, Girl-child insisted I help her get dressed (I tried the old "But you're five years old! You can do it yourself!" routine, but she didn't buy it.) We got her peejays off, and started to get her dressed when she turned her back to me and asked, "Is that scratch still there on my butt?" And I looked down...and MAN! Kids have the most perfect bodies! I don't mean that in a pervy way, it's just that kids haven't learned to slouch, or sit for hours a day at a computer, or get weird stretchmarks after carrying around a 10-lb baby inside their bodies. My own posterior is relatively flat, while the kids have these lovely round ice-skater butts, and how did that happen? I always wanted a little pert behind, and instead I got something flat enough to show a movie on.

Butt-envy? Is that possible?

Anyway, I was only planning on doing three poems, but then my head started working in the shower and I came up with five. A couple long poems in there. You may need to nibble on my 'butt' for a while. That Russian one is...uh...some story I should probably write. And there's an oral sex one, and a gross one no better than a 'pull my finger'.

So, without further jawing, I present to you,

Poems About Bottoms

With All Apologies to Parrot-Heads and Margarita Aficionados:

Spongecake is so sweet
Ice cream’s a sweet treat
All those desserts topped with real whipped cream
Pullin’ my jeans on
Damn, something’s so wrong
Why is my flesh peekin’ out of the seam?

Panic attack again in Derriere-ey-ville
Cheese and yogurt expanded my butt
Some people claim that Atkins puts South Beach to shame
But I know
It’s also my gut.

I don’t know the reason
I don’t get more teasin’
Must be the boys like my brand new caboose
Cause it’s a whopper
A real show-stopper
My jeans are too tight, but my morals too loose

Panic attack again in Derriere-ey-ville
That size eight is just not gonna fit
Some people claim that it’s the bad carbs to blame
But I know
It’s all the choc-lit.

I blew out my short shorts
and bluejeans of all sorts
My ass is expanding like some great balloon.
But there’s cheesecake and rum-coke
And soon, I mean, no joke,
We’ll be stuffin’ our faces like some cheap cartoon.

Panic attack again in Derriere-ey-ville
Size 6, size 8, size 9, and size 10.
Some people claim that it’s ‘cause I have no shame
But I know
It appeals to the men.

With All Apologies to David St. Hubbins, Nigel Tufnel, and Mockumentary Fans:

Bubble Bottoms

The rounder the cushion
the harder the pushin’,
and that’s what I love.
The broader the bum cheeks
the more lovin’ I seeks,
you fits like a glove.
My baby’s ass is like a big ol’ bubble,
She’s round and firm, and I’m in lots of trouble.

Bubble bottoms
Bubble bottoms
Talk about peaches
My girl’s grown ‘em
Bubble bottoms drive me out of my head
Hope she don’t roll out of bed.

At the gym I met her
I couldn’t forget her
and her tight spandex.
She bounced and she jiggled
As her round ass wiggled
Like special effects.
Is that thing real, or did she get those implants?
And if I touch ‘em will I explode in my pants?

Bubble bottoms
Bubble bottoms
Talk about sweet meats
My girl flaunts ‘em
Bubble bottoms drive me freakin’ insane
I can’t get her off of my brain

With All Apologies to Alexander Pushkin (Russian poets rock):

Winter, What shall we do to protect our asses?

Winter, what shall we do to protect our asses? I wear
a coat of ermine, as my servant brings me a cup of mocho-cocoa
And still the questions remain. Why is my tush so unbearably cold?
Am I wearing underwear? Should I go for a ride
in my new Lexus, which has heated seats? Or should I go to the spa,
and have my perky buns tweaked by Raoul, who knows how I like it?
Through the courtyard, let us go, and pour some of that vodka into my cup,
as I must have something to warm the cockles of my backside.
Here, servant-boy, reach your hand underneath the fur, and rub my cheeks,
Back and forth, like the gentle washing of waves on the Black Sea,
which later we will reproduce as bodies upon my bed,
and no that’s not sexual harrassment, as you will enjoy it, oh young bud of youth.
This is the life! Surrounded by opulence, my hand-made undergarments glistening with gold thread (no, boy, you cannot have a sip from my cup...I don’t care if you haven’t eaten anything today, I can’t be bothered)...where was I? Oh, gold thread, and my castle filled with every accoutrement, except a bun-warmer, apparently, and oh wouldn’t a nice hot cross bun be fitting.
Oh servant boy! Fetch me pastry!
Yes, and the little children gathering firewood in their charming rags, and my ass feels warmer now, that vodka is really amazing stuff. Oh aching joy at a warm bottom!
Boy! My pastry! Now!
Perhaps I should check the stock market when I get to my study, park my finely toned ass in my ergonomically-adjusted leather swivel chair, with a servant massaging my feet, and (why did that boy go into the barn?) perhaps a soupcon of soup...Wisconsin cheddar, perhaps, or no, clam chowder, I must send that sweet old hag out to dig me some good shellfish.
Oyster crackers! On clam chowder! T’would make the tsars of old turn in their musty graves to hear such a beauteous thing!
(The boy’s rifle shines so in this hoary mist.)
Fine ermine coat, you are so lucky to be the thing to drape my exquisite posterior, as it cost me a year’s servant wages for the lift-and-tuck back there, and by the sons of Zeus, people had better notice it. Here, I will disrobe and prance, all the better to display the
unbelievably flawless job, and isn’t it lucky that I was born to such wealth and dignity, for....
Oh. The bastard boy has shot me. In the buttocks. And. Oh. I am NOT wearing any underwear.
And horror to Mother Russia...I spilled my vodka.

With All Apologies to ee cummings. Yet again.:

o, while you’re up there,
would you mind moving to the side
so’s i can breathe everynow and then?

pink and tan
swooning around me
i enjoy this but
your butt
encompasses my head
like some terrific smothering scarf

no, i don’t mean you’re fat
not at all
it’s just that you need to
just a bit
so i get some air and dont pass out

what a wonderful place
is your ass on my face
(kneeling is better than sitting
if my druthers be had)
so please lift up those creamy cheeks

With All Apologies to Black Sheep and Bean-Lovers:

Toot toot, boy butt,
Did you eat some beans?
Yes mom, yes mom,
farted in my jeans.

One for the ‘nanas and
One for the tacos,
one for the broc’li
and one for the pintos.

Toot toot, boy butt,
Step out for some air
Strike a match and
wave it everywhere.

Big football game this weekend. Enjoy your time off, and GO! Local University!


At 9:15 PM, Blogger Ms. Sheila Whotiger said...

I just don't know what else to say, you are so damn clever. Oh and their little bodies are so damn perfect.

Strike a match and wave it everywhere!

At 12:39 AM, Blogger Pisser said...

"" :)

P.s. My gramma does that with the match, it doesn't really help.

At 1:16 PM, Blogger Bad Alice said...

LOL. I don't dare repeat the catchy Toot Toot, Boy Butt, or I'll probably get notes from the kindergarten teacher.


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