Brassiere, holds parts o'er which fetishists swoon--
Nips hidden like an eclipsed moon;
Hope I view aureolas soon;
The clips clump them together.

Clenched inside these holsters, they can't sway
Or split apart and start to splay,
Each going it's own merry way.
Out, they'd dim the twilight from above;
Beneath them, I'd not see the dove
Flying above, symbol of love;
Sight lines aren't clear with no brassiere.

Wrenched from holding holsters, they can sway
Then split apart and start to splay,
Each going its own mamm'ry way.
Out, their eyes' sights I'm enamored of.
Unbuckled jugs get buccal love;
Her roundhouse raps me right above
Ringing right ear. . .back on, brassiere.