Ode to boobs v.1

I'm boobs-related academic, A tit-science professor grand. In boob-related matters, magic, A master! Yes, across the land! In my strong hands, I’ve held them all - Different kinds, both big and small. From modest pearls to mountains grand, Firm as ball or pudding-soft in hand. Sometimes you caress them gently, And kiss with breath so very warm, And they respond quite diligently, With nipples hardening, taking form. And you proceed with motions tender, Your tongue upon her skin so sweet, And feel the boob-quake, oh so slender - You brought her pleasant trembling heat. Or squeeze them suddenly and tightly, In passion's rush, so strong and keen. It feels so good, both pure and brightly, And know that it is mutual, seen. Sometimes you pass by, She’s in the kitchen crafting pie, You take THEM out, flash a (Wow!) — She thinks: “Oh… there will be sex now!” In a flash, no delay - You’re flat on your back, no say. She moans, fever-flush, unbound... Her breasts bounce, "eclipse the sun!" She freezes, shudders, locks in place - Her breasts pause, halted mid their race. A march of goosebumps, swift and sheer, Charge down her skin, so soft, so near. I worship breasts—pure, raw passion, Crave them near, skin-to-skin fashion. With my last gasp, my dying breath— I’ll rasp, “Show… me… breaaaasts… before death!" I don’t believe in God, but still— I’ll yell this loud, no fear, no frill: “Thanks, Lord—you’ve got the perfect skill— For dreaming up… BREAAAASTS!" Pure thrill!!!