The ways one girds for battle
are myriad.
Unknown Roman Soldier, 44 A.D.
Oh, Superbowl Princess, Miss January,
in buttery leather with snap on cups have you learned a lesson or
two? Black satin can trump pigskin, Beauty can shock. Nipples alarm.
Five Star. A commotion is less welcome than a concussion. Slap a helmet.
Thank you, Janet, for most this
amazing glimpse. You are the sheriff--the golden shield caressing
your areola like a badge. "Run those rustlers and the FCC out
of Dodge." The drink maker proclaims mammaries threaten carbonation.
Mother's milk notwithstanding.
"Wardrobe malfunction," they
sneer in boardrooms--route emails of Miss Piggy, one teat exposed.
Janet, you diabolical slattern, your breast, a thimbleful of erectile
tissue, threatens to corrupt our youth and put little dicks to shame.
Think Snow White allowing the dwarfs to touch her.
Listen pilgrim, follow the bouncing
breasts to Nirvana. Kiss them in the desert on your knees. Papaya
grows so freely here, speaks two languages and produces a surfeit
of seeds. Flood the Delta, continue on your path of burning coals.
Saint Christopher protect you.
