"cleavage" poems
African woman
Mother of civilization.
Oh beautiful woman,
Thou are beyond description.
African woman
Queen of the people of Mamba.
Jambo to all those in heaven
Bless you too my dear mama.
African woman
Royal Nubian Queen.
The backbone of her man
You'll do anything to help him win.
Single Black woman
Made of broken pieces
You're the breadwinner,Superwoman.
You're the symbol of strength in all places.
African woman
Daughter of Eve's.
Thou are God's true specimen,
And the apple of his eyes.
Black woman
Daughter of Africa.
Blueprint of a **** woman,
Dark hue of coffee arabica.
African woman
Mother of humanity
Chieftess of ancient Nyngoman,
Mama Africa's bounty.
African woman
My Mandingo bride.
First woman of Africa's Eden
Center of God's black tribe.
Nigerian woman
My Yoruba Queen.
Envied by the women of Oman,
Cafe ou lair, cream of Africa's cream!
Warrior woman,
Queen of Wakanda.
Come and flip your wand,
Find the soul of Sarafina.
Curvy woman
In your womb lies Africa's future.
My Lormah woman
Oyobuays marvels at your structure.
Beautiful woman,
Perpetual envy of the silicon woman.
Pride of the Black man,
The essence of a real woman.
Indigo Woman
Lillies of the African plains.
Thou are Eve of the African Eden,
Best of the portraits that nature paints.
Voluptous woman,
Full, thick natural lips.
Real assert of the Black woman,
Nature gets aroused by your hips.
Ellen Sirleaf, today's woman,
Africa's first female president.
A Liberian woman,
Loved and revered wherever she went.
Smile ,Gambian woman,
You're daughter of Sarakunda.
Roots of the Black American woman,
Captives of the kanda Bolinga.
South African woman
Mariam Makeba
Sang for freedom and fought like a man
You were truly Soweto's finest Deva.
Dark ebony woman,
You are red, yellow and green.
Hanmatan wind stops at your command,
Born to slay and be seen.
African woman
Thou are the only reason
God put Adam in a coma.
Your perpetual beauty transcends time and Season.
African woman,
Under your cleavage, the Nile flows
And between your fingers, golden threads are woven,
You are the reason Beyonce glows.
Harriet Tubman, brave woman
Smuggled slaves underground.
She was a freed Black slave woman,
Who avowed to leave no soul behind.
Creative woman
Maya Angelou, gifted poetess.
Famous writer and a Black woman
Will be remembered for her poetic prowess.
Native African woman,
Africa's limestone and cement.
A mother, a wife, virtuous woman,
Lioness and the spine of the continent.
Liberian woman
Roots of my poetry, you gave me life
You are every woman.
Your edges are sharper than the Sumarais knife.
#IvanBrookspoetry©
13/8/2018
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC
*****
I like ***** I like ****
before you touch, you must get permits.
Nothing like a nice pair of assets,
oh how puppies make nice pets.
Bazongas are ***** that are large,
strippers and hookers, will always charge.
Nothing like the perfect *****
but only on the perfect woman.
******* are yummy dark or white,
but first you must wait for an invite.
Some girls even have a third ******
do not squeeze says Mr. Whipple.
I don't mind girls on the itty, bitty, ***** committee,
on a carpenters dream, I show no pity.
They could be called a bust, some call them cans,
a woman's squeeze box, all men are fans.
Chesticles is a term I have never heard,
but everyday, I learn a new word.
I like cones, I like jugs,
girls with big ones, I give hugs.
Al Bundy loved calling them *******
at the restaurant, I wish I was one of the recruiters.
A girl with a nice set of knockers,
might find herself with unwanted stalkers.
Fergie sang about her lovely lady lumps,
a good set of melons, still give me goose bumps.
***** always come in a pair,
why do bra's, they have to wear.
Even men who smoke lots of crack,
still can appreciate a good sized rack.
I don't care if there fake or real.
in a crowded room, I always cop a feel.
Girls love showing off some cleavage,
I wish I lived in a ***** village.
Babies need breast milk to make them stronger,
if the mom is hot, they may do it longer.
In conclusion, I love *****
with whipped cream or melting ice cubes.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
I love ***** big and small, I love ***** best of all.
I think ***** are lots of fun, I think ***** are number one.
I think ***** are really neat, they make me want to beat my meat.
I love ***** covered in lace, I love ***** rubbing my face.
I love ***** in leather black, those are huge, do they hurt your back?
I love ***** in bras of silk, make me want to say "got milk"?
I love ***** in a college dorm, and in a nurse's uniform.
I love ***** in tight red sweaters, or stretching against a t-shirt's letters.
I love ***** in t-shirts wet, hey you with the nice ***** have we met?
I love ***** in skimpy swim wear, I'm sorry, I can't help but stare.
I saw your cleavage from above, with your ***** I am in love.
Your ***** are giving me a ****** I'll have my pants off in a jiffy.
Your ***** have given me an ******** I want to do them without protection.
Your ***** have made me want to **** them. I even want to ********* them.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
Selfies,
I can smell the desperation,
from here.
odors of worry;
rippling anxities of uncertainity.
two dimensional,
instantaneous impressions,
pixelated presentations,
and
Teenage frustrations.
up tilted camera.
held against the light,
Illuminating eyes ,
and eradicating spots.
that looks like a good one.
Vicarious representation;
of how good
one could look,
fallible and hopeful.
big bosomed dame
showcasing blessed cleavage,
pulsating the adolescent
bulges.
delivered to
metal passenger,
thereafter shown
among peers.
networked to unknown.
Friends who'd never
met eye,
or
touched skin,
or
even spoke.
self conscious
cropping of images.
fat and fearful.
wasted hours,
dying for love.
False dream of
captivating the messes with her selfie.
The very ugliness
of impressions.
Oh, how shallow we've became.
The denial
of the impact of aesthetics.
laughable,
torrents of judgement
Skinny,
fat,
ugly,
behold their desperate eyes behind the selfie.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
They said
Don’t wear leggings
Or a shirt that shows your cleavage
Because you need to be covered up
You’re a distraction
They said
Don’t use your period as an excuse
For male teachers to let you go to the bathroom
Because you’re not fooling anybody
They said
Don’t shave your head
Boys can
You can’t and don’t
And won’t because we’ll suspend you
They said
Watch the length of your skirt
The colour of your hair
The shoes and makeup
The piercings
And they call that fair
They said
Come to us if something is wrong
if you’re feeling bullied
if you feel unsafe
I guess they don’t remember asking my friend and I
if we heard of anyone in our year with suicidal tendencies
They asked us because
We were the sensible ones
The bright ones
We couldn't have been depressed.
I guess they didn’t see my panic
and my hand squeezing my wrist.
Because school
Is not a place
Where you can express who you are
School is not the place where you feel safe
It's a battle ground on the outside of your comfort zone.
School isn’t about education
Its a challenge, competition
Its a measurement of your capabilities
But what if you don't excel?
You’re called out for not being good enough
You're humiliated. Mocked.
You get looked down on
Judged
Embarrassed
And you don’t get your
Degree
As if a degree explains who you are
What you’ve been through
How much you’re worth
As if a degree
Measures the capacity
Of your heart
And your knowledge
And a teacher can share your grade
Make a joke and smirk
Cause they think you’re not worth it
And they can laugh and yell and call your parents
Who don’t think you’re any better.
Because year after year they’ve been led to believe
that you’re easily distracted
that you don’t do what you’re told
that you’re rebellious
Because even if you showed respect to the hypocrisy
That you can't help but notice,
They still won’t understand that you're just fighting
for what you believe is right, for mutual respect.
Because that’s not what you were thought.
You were thought to raise your hand when you want to speak.
And even if you made a valid point
You would still get lectured on putting your hand up when you want to speak.
Discipline put first.
And that is my definition of school
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
The Cross, the Cross
Goes deeper in than we know,
Deeper into life;
Right into the marrow
And through the bone.
Along the back of the baby tortoise
The scales are locked in an arch like a bridge,
Scale-lapping, like a lobster's sections
Or a bee's.
Then crossways down his sides
Tiger-stripes and wasp-bands.
Five, and five again, and five again,
And round the edges twenty-five little ones,
The sections of the baby tortoise shell.
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Then twenty-four, and a tiny little keystone.
It needed Pythagoras to see life playing with counters on the living back
Of the baby tortoise;
Life establishing the first eternal mathematical tablet,
Not in stone, like the Judean Lord, or bronze, but in life-clouded, life-rosy tortoise shell.
The first little mathematical gentleman
Stepping, wee mite, in his loose trousers
Under all the eternal dome of mathematical law.
Fives, and tens,
Threes and fours and twelves,
All the volte face of decimals,
The whirligig of dozens and the pinnacle of seven.
Turn him on his back,
The kicking little beetle,
And there again, on his shell-tender, earth-touching belly,
The long cleavage of division, upright of the eternal cross
And on either side count five,
On each side, two above, on each side, two below
The dark bar horizontal.
The Cross!
It goes right through him, the sprottling insect,
Through his cross-wise cloven psyche,
Through his five-fold complex-nature.
So turn him over on his toes again;
Four pin-point toes, and a problematical thumb-piece,
Four rowing limbs, and one wedge-balancing head,
Four and one makes five, which is the clue to all mathematics.
The Lord wrote it all down on the little slate
Of the baby tortoise.
Outward and visible indication of the plan within,
The complex, manifold involvedness of an individual creature
Plotted out
On this small bird, this rudiment,
This little dome, this pediment
Of all creation,
This slow one.
11.7k
She heard that he’s a poet
and wondered if he would write a poem
about her.
A wave of her
shoulder length strands of pleasure
should flag down nearly any man
with an ounce of testosterone.
She wondered if she had a poem in her hair.
She spoke a few soft words
layered with one of her smiles,
the kind most guys adore
because they don’t know if it means
to come closer or to leave her alone.
Perhaps a poem rested in her smile.
If she had cleavage like Jayne Mansfield
surely he would
form lines about her in his mind
and feel compelled to tell the world
how she captured his lust.
She wished for ******* with a poem in her cleavage.
She touched him.
He seemed open to her arm around his waist.
A poet felt like any other man.
She pressed closer;
perhaps he sensed a poem
in the warmth of her lean figure.
Later in bed,
he stayed close, their legs entangled
unlike anything she could remember.
She wondered if there had been a poem
in her *****
She wished she smoked
and noticed that he didn’t.
Perhaps if they shared a cigarette
he would be enticed by the drift of the smoke from her lips.
Was there a poem in her sensual exhaling?
He seems so Hemingway,
mysterious, yet open to each moment.
Her mind played his movements
like a video tape recorder.
She wondered if she should write a poem about him?
Was there a poem in this experience?
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 9:23 PM UTC
I wake up in the morning and put on a pretty dress,
My goal is to stun, amaze, and impress.
I make it about halfway through school without fuss,
But around 5th period I’m written up because cleavage isn’t a must.
I’m getting punished for my own set of double D’s,
Because the men around me get erections from a passing breeze.
If kids in high school can’t control themselves,
Why should I be the one punished for my huge shelves?
Why are men not taught to respect women,
But I am told I look slutty once again?
You’d think boys would be more than their ***** by this time,
But as of now cleavage is still a crime.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s:
The Muse sits resplendent
caressed in sepia tones and pastel cream
gilded with the glaze of a bygone era
her silk Charleston negligee
worn proud like a vintage ornament
perched on an aesthetically pleasing
shapely pert insolent *****
blossomed with tiny beads of sweat
the heat of such anticipation
entices the pearls of the ******
to pamper and pleasure their perversions
etched as if in a radiance of candlelight
the flickering limbs pulse their bloom
nimble fingers of dancing shadows
cupping the feline curves of a chaise longue
the purposefully out of place set piece
the fantasy of a gentleman's reading room
caked in casked sherry
and Nat Sherman cigar infused aromas
her elegant pose sumptuous reclining
elbow length satin gloves
sensually wrapped in wanton desire
two fingers clasp a Sorbranie Black Russian
smoked like a sultry gypsy
with a fervent demeanour
from a silver opera cigarette holder
beckoning with the cats eyes of mischief
over Pinced nez eyeglasses
with a fascination imbibed
in the praxis of passion
the peach skin of refulgent youth
directs the viewer downwards, slowly
survey each contour of olive skin
and stroke every hidden cleft of fabric
to glimpse the nubile thighs of grace
leading the eye to the arch of an ankle
slipped like a fitted glove
nestled in the cleavage of her calf
and the chastity of future wonderment
the forgotten photograph
captures a period in time
the memories of the muse
now in motionless existence
a demure allure forever frozen
once lost, but now
never forgotten
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
I need you to touch me
do it now.
I want your body, you want mine
remember you said
sweetheart, everything will be fine.
tips of your finger are silk
barely touch my cleavage
my entire body is so rich
rich of your small just sprinkle kisses.
I need you to touch me more
what are you waiting for?
your palm is burning, under my skin
looking in your eyes
I'm reading a long story of desire.
is all for me?
you smile to me, smile for me
when you do it
my thoughts become blurry.
please, stop whisper into my ear
I can't handle anymore
please
just, touch me!
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
This poem casts a line from insomnia to morning
On the wind of a prayer that whatever bites, holds on.
See I have counted eleven score and ten,
with rainbow like curves of my neck -
contemptuous beasts leaping in formation
each bleating out a preach of vague platitudes;
A narrative for the night sky.
My hands clamour at keys for escape
until I tumble headfirst into a web so vast
it has ensnared the whole world wide -
millennials are living in-ter-net over in-the-world;
a new ultraviolence against humanity.
I beat my words into the screen until it breaks;
shattering scarlet emoticons like confetti
pouring over language as if it were a compliment.
My mind massages shapeless polypous thoughts
like tight constricted muscles aching for release.
3am casts these philosophies into horses,
whipping them into shape and speed
before the eyes of this statuesque ******
This anxious wakefulness begs my manic self to dance;
suggestively ********* tickets to ride like cleavage.
Sleep is fast becoming a neglected former engagement;
as my mind trips over fallen heroes
wades through my favourite mistakes
in a wonderland unfolding faster than I can fall
while the world beyond my window remains dark.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
I am carved in scars
In stretches, in mars and imperfections
Blood, sweat, thick skin.
Roots of strength and passion and pride
I will not trade my high mentality for your low approval
I am a queen of Africa
Untamed, ****** hair, color: opaque
Killed, straightened, whitened
Westernized, hypnotized, it's this way or the highway.
Bleached skin, egotistical chocolate, pale skin
Contacts in shades of green, blue, hiding murky eyes
Size 0, size 1, size 3, stop. Hips do lie, only flat and thin.
Push up bras, Barbie ******* corset waists.
Bikinis, mini skirts, cleavage, to hell with tradition.
I am carved in makeup
In luster, attention and perfection
No longer, blood, sweat, thick skin
Lost roots of strength and passion and pride
I have traded my high mentality for your low approval
I am no longer queen of Africa,
No longer queen of me.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 7:56 PM UTC
A Workplace Rendezvous
My eyes
Always found hers.
Mischief,
The dangling host.
She was one
Of my workplace peers.
If it went any further
I could be toast.
Those cinnamon eyes
Of hers.
Butterscotch candy
Peers back at me,
I feel so dandy
Shoot me some brandy.
I see the loneliness
In hers.
Her cleavage
Cuts to the chase.
Happenstance now in place.
Our eyes did dance a duet.
Her words are the coquette.
Mine is a cadet.
We grabbed a ruse.
A pail and mop with a muse.
When we reached
The men's restroom
The coast was clear.
The sun shining above,
Holding a frown.
Say hello to the clown.
We fast break the court,
I dribble up and down.
She passes back and forth,
I shoot for the town.
We score at the bell,
That breaks the spell.
Our lunch break
Rendezvous
Was a first.
And last.
We filled our thirst
With
better scotch
we toast.
Logan Robertson
10/6/2018
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 2:16 AM UTC
remember that time
laying in your bed
back when you we both thought we knew
and you stroked my stomach and kissed my hearts
variously placed of course
cleavage. stomach. hips. sleeve.
lustful sweet **** me now"
boundries not crossed but completely jumped
eh, **** it.
but for now... your hands?
here...
and there.
remember that time...
you smiled and i laughed
made the moment
...laughter.
"ahh **** ****
it was just a dream.
snap. back to the percieved
whats the point if i'm going to remember every smile,
moan and laugh
replayed...
over and over...
****
i'm fertile and *****
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 11:51 AM UTC
Like pokies they stuck always out, never afraid
To show that they were here to stay for all to see.
A tattoo of a bow caressed her cleavage, the tattooist
Even though not meaning rubbed pokies to much.
Ending with a happy customer, a damp seat and a wet floor.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 5:49 AM UTC
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
Though I never shagged you at all
You ****** the rhythm to ******* yourself
While those around you ate crow
They schlepped out of the cleavage
And they ********** into your crumpet
They ******* you on the rowing machine
And they copulated you **** your three *****
And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never knowing who to stick it out to
When the ooze congeal from the top drawer
And I would have liked to have had carnal knowledge of you
But I was just a twit
Your cigarette lighter exploded spew out long before
Your whiff never blewout
Stiffness was sticky
The gristliest fat part you ever nibbled
Hollywood cobbled together a wizzofrog
And ******** was the corkage you greased
Even when you conked out
Oh the lubricator still molested you
All the skeletons had to jabber
Was that Marilyn was ***** flashy the starkers
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
from the virginal wombat in the twenty—second ghetto
Who smells you as meat as above par than scatological
Olé! than frank our Marilyn Monroe
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
Cleavage, Oh, what wounder!
Full and Round!
Soft and ****
Like a bouquet of flowers!
Fregrant & beautful,
meant to be admired.
Properly displayed,
In color and lace,
So wounderfully feminine!
A cavern of love,
She captures my attention,
And releases my desire.
Add just a smile!
Even a hint of one,
a powerful potion is revealed.
Cleavage with a Smile!
A great and powerful man,
under her **** spell.
hoplessly mesmerized,
by Cleavage with a Smile.
Don't look away!
Don't be offended!
be kind, add a smile.
Cleavage With a Smile!
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
The Billboard Music Awards took over Las Vegas last night as the celebs rocked it on the carpet and on the stage. However, there were more than a few music stars who just missed the mark when it came to the fashion.
From the barely there gowns to the colorful messes that caught everyone’s eye, and not in a good way.
The Billboard Music Awards fashion is usually something to praise, however this year things took a turn for worse. These lucky celebrities top our list of biggest fashion fails from the billboard music awards.
Mariah Carey chose to show it off in a cleavage baring illusion dress.
Hailee Steinfeld’s embraced her girly side in a black and white ruffle number.
The whole Fifth Harmony clan completely failed in their black, white and yellow matching outfits.
Britney Spears covered it all up in an ill-fitting, long, sparkly gown.
And Dencia’s outfit was a messy rainbow that had everyone staring.
It seems like some of the stars got dressed in the dark or just completely forgot to look in the mirror before stepping out on the red carpet.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 3:44 AM UTC
Celebrating an identity in a gender
Oh! The lipstick,
Oh! The spanx
To God I give thanks!
Being female,
What a blessing,
Even though, I've got to tell you,
These gender roles can be depressing
Nothing like dressing up for a date,
Don't forget, you must be royally late!
Pile on the mascara, concealer and lipstick
Hey mama, don't forget to pull down your dress a bit
You almost forgot to reveal your cleavage!
Please, by all means, empty that pretty little head of yours
Of any intelligence or reason
Girl, your only purpose is for a man's pleasing!
Now, get to that appeasing
You shouldn't be wasting all your time teasing.
Oh, mama, cry it out
Weep and pout
Gossip with your girls
Reject that pretty girl...
Who does she think she is, being naturally beautiful?
She doesn't deserve friends
If she needs support, she has an abundance of men who can pretend.
Go ahead now, pull up that mini skirt more
What do you think he's looking for?
Do you think he cares about your brain?
You're insane!
Do you think he treasures your heart?
Oh please, don't fall apart.
Do you think he'll still love you when you're old?
What, do you think men fall in love with your soul?
In celebration of being female
Let me spare you some advice
Love yourself with all you've got
And please, stop begging for it (love)
Stop showing your legs for it
If you cultivate dignity for yourself and
Love yourself
True love is guaranteed forever.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
grow a beard...
buy a jazz double-bass...
start stroking it...
attempt to look
pensive...
and then write some
Cockney
comedy... and?
**** Oxford.
**** 'em good;
can't be,
******* arsed...
where's a *******
jazz double bass
the kind i need to stand up
to play?!
where?!
gone, "nowhere"...
Achilles would sooner
find a tortoise,
you ******* half-whit
bull bullock base catcher...
yummy yummy...
no ******* double whammy
if there ain't
a greasy dough nnnnnnnn
in my mouth oozing a squid's
mating call...
from the Jules Verne estimate
of how...
big the ******* could become...
oh please...
**** is a conjunction
word...
akin to and...
spew effect,
regurgitation, founded upon...
so...
so... farting in a public place
is less offensive than
uttering a word of oath?!
**** me...
more ****
less ***** images...
i guess that's how you
habitually attack Christian
h'america...
**** **** **** and impose
a curb of a ***** show me the puppies
kitchen ***** Kentucky style
****
******* wankers...
dreaming up some ****
in long lost Cockney rhyming
slang for some:
willkommen zu verirrt amstetten...
....................
...................................
..............
................
SCHMILE...
boorish ******* gnomes dancing
the leprechaun gamblers' dance...
skivvy *************
sure...
censor the words...
but god forbid you censor
showing all the *******
because... if you do?
guess what...
i might forget my farming impulse...
of imagining a
a cleavage to also imply
a pork buttocks...
funny...
how a show of cleavage is synonymous
with a show of pork
buttocks...
and then i begin thinking of
milking...
which throws a ***** **** out
with the baby and the bathwater
and... i'm shinging...
what's that name of the place?!
New Orleans!
yeah...
like some minstrel in that
part of the world that
part of the world that's
a ********
what?!
you spew on me...
i spew on you...
we can at least exchange...
what we "love" about each other...
but i implore!
i implore!
visit Warsaw!
alone... no, not with other people...
ah-loan - a-l-o-n-e....
i'll be your companion,
when you peer at your shadow,
and attempt, to pretend,
to disappear.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC
When sweet Sara gets to
Heaven to St. Peter
she will say,
not a **** thing,
only run her
tongue along her
full, glossy, *********** lips,
and snare his eyes
with her low-cut, cleavage
boasting blouse.
She'll get it.
*** always sells.
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 8:49 AM UTC
The pizza took her place in bed. It slathered itself all over her.
The pizza objectified my body.
It slid between her ******* leaving traces of red sauce and strands of hot, almost liquid cheese in the nook of her cleavage.
It slowly dripped off of her ******* as she spread its residue across her *****
From there, the succulent, almost watery juices rolled off of her teet and onto her folded legs as she knelt there in the store window.
Everyone could see her.
But as long as those who were most enthralled came inside to purchase a pie or two, no one seemed to care.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 11:49 PM UTC
Girl,
You’ll be a woman
Soon, so start
Straightening your hair
So it’s smooth and shiny
And cake on your cumbersome
Concealer because
Acne is for boys.
Browse bras in Victoria’s Secret
The ones with plentiful padding,
Push-up, so your cleavage
Screams: “I am a grown lady”
Even though you’re only thirteen.
Trade your sweats for slimming
Jeans that squeeze, skin-tight
Telling you to take a trot to trim
Your waist because you weigh
More than a delicate number.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC