shall school as a sorc’ress and saw folks in half.
The bimbo display’d in a My Name Is Bar Bra
shall feign funny ladies and fetch folks a laugh.
Gals knockin’ 'em dead in an Indian Co Bra
shall bob from a basket to blues blown on flutes.
Gals makin’ their bed in a Sixth of Decem Bra
weds elves name of Nick dress’d in cherry-red suits.
When Cavan colleens wear an Erin-Go Bra,
they shall swing a shellelagh and savor their stout.
When actresses preen in their Fortin Bras…? Hah!
She'll ne’er yield till she fathoms what Hamlet's about.
Who suits up in BraGgarts but elsewise runs nude
shall be labell’d "Ms. Show Me" – nor never "Ms. Prude."
Who snoots, "I’ll sashay in my J. Edgar Hooters”
shall never lack confidence. (Nor, indeed, suitors.)
Who tries on a BraIlle shall prove tres touchy-feely.
What "walking's" requir'd her friends' fingers can do.
Who ties on a JaBrawock’s crazy…no, really!
(Who puts on a Jugg Band's meshugganah, too.)
Who dons a Khalil Gi Bra (not her hijab)…?
She’ll pass through a dim psychological haze.
Who puts on a 34D LiBrarace...?
She’ll fascinate women and men, straights and gays.
Who wears a Bra Mitzva (such women don’t have to be
Jewish) shall move from NY to LA.
Who effects a NeBraska shall move to Grand Island
and work as a cornhusker’s flunky. (Oy, vay!)
Sue wears "Ob-la-di Ob-la-da Life Goes On Bras.
There's no way such gals shall not sing with the band.
Who wears a Penum Bra, though, plays second fiddle.
Her lights under bushels she’ll keep well in hand.
Who wears a George BraQue shall appreciate cubism,
although orbiculism prefer.
Who wears a Bra Rabbit shall toil as a Bunny
in Hugh’s Playboy mansion -- Hef’s Hutch, as it were.
Who wears the Bra Sband to a different drummer
must march, doin’ diddles and ratamacues.
Who dares wear a Bra Twurst (especi’lly in summer)
must parch…or sweat puddles of Mulligan Stews.
The Fräulein who’s view’d in a rude U Bra Alles
shall bring to mind Herr Hitler’s Mädchen Ms. BraUn.
The Fräulein who’s nude is unclued. Her Bra Vissimo’s
closeted as she parades around town.
Who’d strut in a Bra Nee, although she seems scrawny,
shall shout, “’Tis a Bra(w)ny I’m harness’d in here.”
The slut in a BraXton shouts, “Some John climax’d on
my “gabradine” BraXton. ‘Tis ruined, I fear.”
The bimbo array’d in a Yogi Bra…? Fussy!
No Winnie the Pooh Bra. (No Polar Bra, either.)
The bimbo display’d in a bold Bra Zen Hussy…?
Risque! (Now…who craves a “bra”ndiloquent breather…?)
