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(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.

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