She’s a glutton, she’s no kitten; she can stuff her face for Britain
See her sitting in her Citroen, you can spot her from afar.
She is buxom, she is brazen, see her bottom, it’s amazing,
She is straining at the straplets of her cantilevered bra.
She’s an airship, she’s a trawler, still I worship and adore her
She’s a randy landslide riding in her flash French car.
As a goddess, she’s the oddest, and she’s vulgar and immodest
She’s the empress of breast, she is my sweet Dagmar.
She’s no figment, she’s no fragment, she’s a fat fridge magnet
and she’s sticking like a limp
Marietta suspected strongly by the end of the week, but had little opportunity to pinpoint any proof. She spent every spare moment with Henry in the subtle pursuit of slipping him up, jarring the conversation into unexpected turns. ‘Yes’ became a rather indifferent ‘okay’ or ‘alright,’ no matter how many different ways she managed to ask for affirmation. He veered around plurals and possessives as if they were road kill.
“How many balloons are there?” she asked.
“Eight,” said Henry.
“Not seven? It looks to me like there are seven.”
Henry stiffened but didn’t