To the masseuse with wandering hands

God saw fit to make me rather well endowed
With a cleavage of which I am quite proud
Now, you can look, but you cannot touch
And your hands are wandering a tad too much
I don’t want to make a scene
But your fingers are doing something rather obscene
The feel of your slimy, clammy, sweaty flesh
Is branded upon the skin of my breast
So let’s get one thing perfectly clear
You feel me up again and I’ll break your landing gear

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