You know about hooters.
A girl's straight shooters.
The ones that precede the parade.
Those most heavenly mounds
That fill up their night gowns,
And children sometimes use for shade.
It's quite titillating,
My method of rating;
Are the tips brown, red, or pale pink?
Do they shine in the sun?
Do they bounce when they run?
Do they fill up the kitchen sink?
I adore petite breasts.
I think they are best.
They don't sag or sway in the wind.
They're bright and they're perky,
Salute when it's murky,
And can stand a workout now and then.
Now, please don't get me wrong,
Whether large, fat or long,
The worst I ever saw were great!
I remember it well,
The fat lady from hell.
I suffered crushed bones on that date.
But sweet, small-breasted blondes,
Remind me of white swans;
Graceful and perfect of trim.
The kind you daydream of,
And wish dearly to love,
And tempts one to contemplate sin.
So here is to swimming
With sweet-breasted women,
Who always seem in such a haste,
And for my final test
Of the feminine chest,
More than a mouth full is a waste!
