Brassieres

The puckered buttons of Mrs Arkwright's breasts Pressed the silk of her Markie's modesty coddlers The bra is her breast's vertebrae, The saddles her twin peaks ride on. Ms Selina's, like Nell Gwyn's fruit Are luscious breasts, according to her beau Who works in the ironmongery section of B & Q He likes to squash them, like Antoine Corlioni, Scooping ice creams Into their pale cornettos At night they loll, tongue in cheek, Over chairbacks and bedheads Yielding their owners scent to the sniffing air.