Have you seen his hella buttes?
Not hills, but his buxom beauts. . .
showing quite a furrow there,
not a single strand of hair
“No shirt with starched high collar!”
guy demands with high choler.
Nips bigger than dimes
on jugs bigger than limes.

A vivid view:
it’s quite a show: those jiggling two;
way up they blow like steroid zits: Putin’s floppy tits.
For this sight he’s put away coats.
With delight, says Put’ “Away coats!!”
Shirts?! The pits!
Putin’s floppy tits.


Dressed up with no shirt to show his boobers
as white as freshly peeled Polish tubers—
no, not Cuba’s!
Breasts-boast gent, that knockers fella;
estrogen his knockers-sweller?
Fill cupped mitts,
Putin’s floppy tits.

Tit for tat is not what makes him happy—
he just takes it all—victims feel crappy.
No bra straps, he.

With great flair he’s simply doffing
his chest ware—show in the offing.
No shirt fits
Putin’s floppy tits.