Tits are in the Eye of the Beholder
by Ty Higgins 

I think that I shall never pass
a poem as lovely as an ass
or a verse that weighs as heavy
as a buck-naked supermodel
straddling a Chevy
How could course words
ever capture the heaven
of the classic Maxim issue #7?
No match has a poet’s mind thought
for the work God
and boob doctors hath wrought
on the chest of some
milky-white maiden
a blank canvas now silicone-laden
How could Wordsworth
ever be so divine
as that chick on the cover of Maxim #9?
He probably never got a girl so immaculate
if the portrait in our book is at all accurate
Everyone knows guys only turn to poems
and learning of xylems and phloems
and spending their time curing cancers
and knowing the names of ballet dancers
when their chances of scoring have vanished
and their boring old asses are banished
You may be there, teach-I'd say you are
I’ve seen that shitbox you call a car
You’d pick up more ladies in a hearse
and that suit that you wear's even worse
So I’m glad you’ve got books-'cuz you need 'em
to forget you're not getting laid while you read 'em
And me, all I need is to pass
even if I was reading a Penthouse in class
I need you to hook me up, teach, no doubt
'cuz I hear college girls are the ones who put out.

Lunch Money
Listen up, Billy Olson: I’m a drink you up like Molson, make you sing like a fat Al Jolson—grab your tits and milk ‘em both, son.

Thug Life
Go on, girls, keep on giggling, about the time I got kicked out of the cafeteria for sneaking a second helping. That’s a good way to get your tits kicked in.

Spastic Gastric Function
The earth cries, the French fries have eyes and legs. Holy shit McDonalds on acid! There’s a tarantula with Velcro knees, George Bush honking on the Japanese.