Miss Match

What marvel is this?
I am changed,
Rearranged.
A syndrome curious,
Though not injurious;
Metamorphosis.

Mid course correction,
It’s insane
Though germane
And oh so topical -
Even anthropical -
This new direction.

Breasts, boobs, tatas, tits,
No more chest.
I’ll attest
My curves KO corners.
Those who knew me, mourners.
Like my retrofits?

But these are cage free,
Pure and no
GMO,
Certified organic
And though not titanic,
There’s no surgery.

Push up? Quarter cup?
Balconette?
Get the set!
Bikinis red, blue, green,
The hottest on the scene.
How I love dress up!

And they come in pairs.
One per hand,
On demand,
And always at their best.
My knockers never rest;
Titty charge d’affaires.

Cleavage is a must.
Push ‘em up,
Fill that cup.
Display them like they’re bling
On a queen, once a king;
Udder upper crust.

Before I go I
Must confess,
Must redress
The notion I’m a gal.
By any rationale
Labels I defy.

No single tag fits;
Not mister,
Or sister.
A feminine creature
With a manly feature…
…A penis for my tits!