When drastically both breasts are droopers,
I’m partial to the party poopers
who will not join them while they sag
until they’re lifted, like a flag,
not by a bra but by a surgeon,
who makes them fit for virtual virgin.
When neither of the mammary glands
is fit for cupping by the hands
because they’re sadly shriveled, shrunken,
and hollow as in Donuts Dunkin’,
male chauvinist, I walk away,
and search for others on display.
When breasts are greatly oversized
I do not wish to be apprized
of their gross presence, but retreat
towards a pair that, more discrete,
is more attractive to this poet,
a tit man, case you didn’t know it,
although long legs may be enticing,
and buttocks which are like the icing
on cake which, though made for a wedding,
seems tasty for small bouts of bedding
between a pair of sheets kept crumbless
by love slow as molasses, rumless.