In and around the locker room there’s little talk of breasts, but lots of conversation about tits.
A woman has bosoms, a bust, or a breast,
Those lily-white swellings that bulge ’neath her vest
They are towers of ivory, sheaves of new wheat,
In a moment of passion, ripe apples to eat.
You may speak of her nipples as small rings of fire
But by Rabelais’ beard, she’ll throw fifteen fits
If you speak of them roundly as good honest tits.
—“Ode to Those Four-Letter Words”
Read more – “Bawdy Language,” the Book
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