Of Boredom, Truth, and Breasts

Boredom does breed weird thoughts.
While waiting alone with nothing to do
I was watching people as the idle would do
After a done meal in a certain fast-food
I noticed a woman equally alone
Sitting at a table across my own
And her chest I began to notice
Meaning, her breasts I tried to imagine:
Envisioning the curvature and shape;
Estimating the volume, capacity, and size;
The tenacity of the boing, the Intensity of the jiggle.
Included also the areola's diameter and color--
But sadly guesswork has its limitations

And so, there must be a decision
For the sake of accurate information:
Should one walk up to her
And request a frontal nude?
Go something like this:
"It's just that your breasts
have got me fascinated,
That said, will you let them be examined?"
Do note, dear reader, and note very well:
I am not being perverse, just curious
I care not for the woman;
Believe me, of carnal desire there's none
I have no intention to touch,
nor to squeeze, fondle, and suck.
I've seen porn enough;
Breasts I've seen and touched;
But hers, mixed with boredom
Possessed an ontological charm
That might be termed existential

The breasts are my only focus.
The breasts could be floating on air,
Attached to a wall or a hump on the floor
See if I care for the woman's absence
So let me be clear once more:
The theme is breasts and the goal is understanding--
Breasts floating or to a woman attached
It really matters not.
"So, Miss, don't get full of yourself
Just go and show me those breasts!"


Thus, so I explained myself to the lady judge
whose chest also gave my fancy a nudge
And nudged I was, even with force
From my arrest until the jail bars closed
And I did the same in-bars and got beat-up
For staring at the breasts of a man
I guess that would be natural.