Anatomic Bombs

 

If I stroke a girl’s behind

There’s nothing new to find

As the effort gives responses uniform.

I am fairly well acquainted

That the form, as often painted,

Has nothing much to vary from the norm.

And the pleasure thus acquired

Is never old or tired

It is always a delight to go through.

So I must thank genetics

For the smooth happy kinetics

That bestows the joyful sense that’s always new.

Since, by fate, I am designed

To relish a behind

No matter how the logic finalizes

That a bottom might commend

Any girl I apprehend

In spite of lacking any new surprises.

 

That the current rear end felt

Never fails (below the belt)

To keep my life demented but exciting.

Praise gluteus, hail maximus

That evokes the best in us

To welcome love, reject the acts of fighting.

 

From one who rarely tipples

You can take it straight from me

That a pair if staring nipples

Revealed disturbingly

Are sufficiently sensational

To prompt the most irrational

Reactions conversational

That should never be.

 

The appearance of those spots

Does something to the mind

Tying logic into knots

Both disruptive and so kind

As to elevate the tensions

Beyond normal conventions

Creating odd extensions –

Inhibitions to unwind.

 

Preference may disagree

On stimulants incisive.

Which lock needs whatever key

Can be damnably divisive.

But hormones in humanity

Demand complete conformity

It’s just basic necessity

And it doesn’t bother me.