Bubbly Bouncing Babs'.

People keep asking me for more of this sort of poem. Very nice of them too; but I'm a serious poet FFS! ... Well sometimes.

Bubbly Bouncing Babs'.

Bubbly Bouncing Babs’, comes lolloping down the Lane.
Curtains twitch, and tired old eyes, open wide, and strain.
Construction men on scaffolding, whistle and cat call.
Babs’ just sways as she goes her ways, and flashes her teeth at them all.

Trim of tum’ and broad of hip, Babs’ has a wonderful figure.
Her beautiful bazoomas, couldn’t really be bigger.
They stick out like great melons; pushing at her blouse.
With planning permission, it would be my decision, to build on them a house.

For I could dwell till I’m called to Hell, upon those glorious mounds,
Or nestle in that cleaveged vale until the last Trump’ sounds.
She waltzes by weedy, Mrs O’Creedy who sniffs at the air and shudders.
She know that O’Creedy her husband would die, to get his hands on Babs’ udders.

Curly gold hair and big eyes of blue, with lips like pink rubber tyres.
Babs’ never mistakes that she has what it takes, to kindle old lechery fires.
Very religious, Bubbly Babs’, loves The Lord to bits.
Kneels and thanks Him every day, for giving her marvellous tits.

David Hazell