Love Song for Dagmar

She’s a glutton, she’s no kitten; she can stuff her face for Britain
See her sitting in her Citroen, you can spot her from afar.
She is buxom, she is brazen, see her bottom, it’s amazing,
She is straining at the straplets of her cantilevered bra.
She’s an airship, she’s a trawler, still I worship and adore her
She’s a randy landslide riding in her flash French car.
As a goddess, she’s the oddest, and she’s vulgar and immodest
She’s the empress of breast, she is my sweet Dagmar.

She’s no figment, she’s no fragment, she’s a fat fridge magnet
and she’s sticking like a limpet to that big white door.
You can like it, you can lump it, she’s a slattern, she’s a strumpet
You can fill her to the limit - she’ll come begging you for more.
I am smitten, sycophantic; in her panties she’s gigantic
As I’m straddled, panting, frantic on the pinewood pantry floor.
See her glorious posterior, imperious, superior -
My dearest, I’m delirious, this is serious amour.