Brassieres (Earl H. Emmons) I once was calm, reserved and shy, A rather quiet sort of guy, A simple scribe of artless odes and sonnets, But that's before I chanced to stray Into that brassiere display Where lovely ladies modeled bosom bonnets. And now my simple lyric soul Is prone to rear and rip and roll; I'm frisky as a dozen playful kittens; And I'm afraid I'm not the same Since those divine upholstered dames Exhibited their mamillary mittens. Now I admit that here and there Among the sex described as fair I've looked at bosoms foreign and domestic, From puny papillary warts And sagging saddle-baggy sorts, To massive mounds impressive and majestic. Ah yes, I've been around, and yet Of all the udders I have met, and all that I have seen and felt and tasted, Compared to those I saw the day I crashed that brassiere display Suggests my life has been completely wasted. For there were busts that stood supreme, The tit-ulary creme de creme; They filled me with tit-anic tit-illations; I snort and prance, my reason rants, My morals rip, I rend my pants Just thinking of those lactic decorations. For papillary pulchritude Imbues in me a wanton mood, My system seethes with fierce, salacious surges; When I recall those gorgeous gals And their delightful bosom pals My spirit howls with indecorous urges. And through my old rheumatic frame Primeval passions flash and flame; Those domes divine are driving me demented, And if but once in dishabille I saw them I would die I feel, But I would perish happy and contented. JY
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