Love PoemsPoetry

Boobs Job

Juicy melons
waiting for harvest.
“Till my nipples,” she said,
“I’m ripe and ready.”

Feel my weight,
grab my bulbs,
squeeze my juice;
I’m yours for breakfast.

Sweet glands,
fertile lands;
No need of magic wands,
just tongues and hands.

Bra fleeing,
eyes seeing…
tenderized meat,
fondling treat.

At the end of this job
you sit in the palace
and eat the meal
of kings and nobles.

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