Clingy thin sythentic top
plus bright pink textured lacy bra
equals two tits the size of cannonballs
great piles of candy floss
psychotic belisha beacons
you’d cross the road to die for
shining down the length of Briggate
right past Bella Pasta;
even the waitresses surprised;
modest as a baboon’s red rampant arse.
Boyfriend’s saying nothing,
pretending not to care
that every bloke in Leeds is staring
at those luminous, luminous breasts.