And here's where our poem is blown into bits.
I cannot personify a big pair of tits.
Had they been small I'd have had a good go,
but at present I'm 'fraid that my answer is "no".
So I'm giving it up, that's it, I'm retiring
from all this palava, I am, frankly, expiring.
I will not write poems 'bout a personified bust
in order to satisfy Mike's bizarre lust.
I'm changing the subject to one that's much nicer,
And what could be nicer than cheese?
Its personification is easier by far
than that of some tits that do dwell in a bra.
You know where you are with a nice piece of Brie,
so let's give it a name ... how about Lee?
Yes, Lee was some Brie and he lived in a fridge.
His purpose in life was to make me a sandwich.
You're right, this is boring, it's crap, it's the pits.
Bugger the cheese, Mike, let's stick with the tits ...
Behold now the door, so sturdy and wooden,
carved solid oak, it sure is a good 'un.
Appendages twain - a man wearing wellies.
Beside him a fish, so gleaming and smelly.
See how they hang - two giant brass baubles,
More splendid than chimes, more enchanting than doorbells.
And as you approach and behold this grand eyeful
choose which to use to announce your arrival.
If you're a noble man knock with the trout.
The farmer's for tradesmen and hawkers and louts.
Inside you'll disturb the dowager duchess
who's hearing is sharp and acute and as such is
so sensitive to the cacophonous racket
produced from the door when her visitors whack it.
Sick to the teeth, the duchess had had it.
With one of her bras she decided to pad it
and now when you knock she never gets ruffled
because your hard knocking is suitably muffled.
(Don't know where you got this crap about tits from, Kate!)
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