boobs a lot

BOOBS A LOT

Do you like boobs a lot?
(Yes, I like boobs a lot.)
Boobs a lot, boobs a lot.
(You gotta like boobs a lot.)
Really like boobs a lot.
(You gotta like boobs a lot.)
Boobs a lot, boobs a lot.
(You gotta like boobs a lot.)

Down in the locker room,
Just three boys,
Beatin' down the locker room
With all that noise,

Singin' do you like boobs a lot?
(You gotta like boobs a lot.)
Boobs a lot, boobs a lot.
(You gotta like boobs a lot.)

Do you wear your jock a lot?
(Yes, I wear my jock a lot.)
Got to wear your jock a lot.
(Got to wear your jock a lot.)
Jock a lot, jock a lot.
(You gotta wear your jock a lot.)
Got to wear your jock a lot.
(You gotta wear your jock a lot.)

Well, down on the football,
Football field,
You never can tell
What a heel can wield,

So you gotta wear your jock a lot.
(You gotta wear your jock a lot.)
Jock a lot, jock a lot.
(You gotta wear your jock a lot.)

If I had a flag-a-long,
(If I had a flag-a-long.)
If I had a long flag-a-long,
If I had a long flag-a-long,
If you like boobs a lot, tag along

Bee beep, bop, de boob a lot.
(You gotta like boobs a lot.)
Boobs a lot, boobs a lot.
(You gotta like boobs a lot.)

They're big and round,
They're all around.
They're big and round,
They're all around.

REPEAT

The Fugs

The Fugs First Album, ESP 1018, 1966

A Work Of Artifice

The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener
carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.

Every day as he
whittles back the branches
the gardener croons,
It is your nature
to be small and cozy,
domestic and weak;
how lucky, little tree,
to have a pot to grow in.

With living creatures
one must begin very early
to dwarf their growth:
the bound feet,
the crippled brain,
the hair in curlers,
the hands you
love to touch.

Marge Piercy

copyright 1966 marge piercy all rights reserved

sweetness

SWEETNESS

Just when it has seemed I couldn’t bear
one more friend
waking with a tumor, one more maniac

with a perfect reason, often a sweetness
has come
and changed nothing in the world

except the way I stumbled through it,
for a while lost
in the ignorance of loving

someone or something,
the world shrunk
to mouth-size,
hand-size,
and never seeming small.

I acknowledge there is no sweetness
that doesn’t leave a stain,
no sweetness that’s ever sufficiently sweet ....

Tonight a friend called to say his lover
was killed in a car
he was driving. His voice was low

and guttural, he repeated what he needed
to repeat, and I repeated
the one or two words we have for such grief

until we were speaking only in tones.
Often a sweetness comes
as if on loan, stays just long enough

to make sense of what it means to be alive,
then returns to its dark
source. As for me, I don’t care

where it’s been,
or what bitter road
it’s traveled
to come so far, to taste so good.

Stephen Dunn

Stephen Dunn, “Sweetness” from New and Selected Poems 1974-1994. Copyright © 1989 by Stephen Dunn.
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