Wrapped in a gorgeous gown that clung
to parts of her that were primordial,
revealing halves of breasts that hung
suspended between chords that cordial
accompaniment enhanced, she played
as though she was the soloist.
No quartet rained on her parade,
with her you merely coexist,
for she’s the diva on which eyes
are focused, while the ears are drifting.
Experiences like these surprise
those men who don’t find breasts uplifting.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.