She danced helluva fine hootchy kootchy!
Her g string was gen-yoo-ine Gucci.
Between sets, she’d cruise,
Sit on laps, drink some booze,
And for ten bucks, she’d get real smoochy!
Tag: g-string
Who’d be a woman?
“Men!” she said. “They don’t know how it feels!
Half starved all the time, skipping meals!
And waxing our pubes!
Saving up for new boobs!
Fucking g-strings, and fucking high heels!”
G rated
It was flimsy, and small, and opaque,
Like a fig-leaf, cheap, tacky and fake,
Just a little g-string,
A tight, scratchy wee thing,
She wore, just for decency’s sake.
A thin line
What American girls call a thong
Is a dreadful sartorial wrong.
Though the bit at the front
May just cover the cunt,
The rest gets where it doesn’t belong!