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Requiem to the Weaned

I left all tits for lower climes. Though breasts
still tease a tipple. I'll not cheat a teat
as nurture lives to coax a suckle. Chests
are best at most 'til two. A milky treat
relieves the flu and fortifies strong bones
in you. Til boners rule. All nips aside.
The tent doth pitch. A pox on chaperones.
How rich that milk. But richer still to slide
a dippy-stick between the nether-lips.
One finds the piston-steely-python-pole
outstrips the fun of functionary sips.
Play taps to tits and celebrate the whole
where budding chaos finds its running legs.
And strung between said limbs? New slots and pegs.

Copyright 2009, Norman Ball

this would be nice to read aloud at the vicar's garden party next week.

I believe Shakespeare is humping in his grave.