a city boy's guide to the south

Welcome, friend, to the ramblings of a southerner by choice.

Saturday, June 04, 2005

Bangor Torpedoes

When Bangor torpedoes explode in the rain,
while others just stare, I will often refrain.
I'll be a gent, get them jewel-boxed again.
Yes, I'll help the girl with popped knockers.

Some snow-bunny barely-there's slipped on the slopes.
They hung there with frostbite- entangled in ropes!
I massaged firmly till sure they could cope.
Yes, I helped the girl with popped knockers.

When lawyers' addendums solicit the breeze,
or Rosie's steeled rivets POP-- (metal fatigue),
should meter-maid's coinage expire confines,
or Venus' fine bodice shells ease from their vines,

If grandma's great goose-eggs pate-de-fois grin,
(A horrible thought!-- It's the mind-set I'm in.)
or pray, Madame Bovary's fountain-tableau,
or Julia Child's start pounding the dough...

Those tennis-pro diva-ducks quacked for the queen,
"A scandal!", some shouted; while others,"Obscene!"
I raced from my chair, yelled, "Let's get them sun-screened!"
"This doxie can't flopsy unblocked. See, they'll steam!"

So claim I'm a timberwolf cruising dim lakes.
Am I the one watching those boob-tube retakes?
We don't want sugar bowls! Give me cheesecake!
And I'll help the girls pop their knockers.

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