breasts

Who’s breasts these are I think I know
Her face I can’t remember though
She will not see me looking down
The top of her white-laced gown

She’s telling me about the ballet
And how her boss got sacked Tuesday
I stare longer than intended
I think she might be offended

I try very hard not to look
At her breasts in case I’m mistook
For some lousy lecherous prick
Really I’m a good catholic

Her breasts are lovely, nice and sweet
I wish I could touch them complete
And wrap them up in my bed sheet
And wrap them up in my bed sheet

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chesca (exskindiver)
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Who’s breasts indeed.

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