She Sulks at Gravity
She sulks at gravity, at the tugs
Of advancing times. Ah! Saggy boobs;
And all that chest of floppy nugs
Meet at her midriff, eye her pubes:
Thus matured to those tender jugs,
Man-handled for years, like Rubik cubes.
One stretch the more, once firm the rocks,
Sat half inside the bra of lace
That poked at her braided locks,
Now softly the hairy pits embrace;
As menopause firmly knocks,
How warped, how sure their dwelling place.
And on that breast, and o'er that nipple,
So dry, so pulled, like pointed yams,
The dings that swing, the tits that ripple,
And end their days as Southern hams,
Seven children sucked to cripple,
A tired mom with buggered mams!
Sent as a joke to The League of American Poets
