I revel in big butts, I cannot lie;
‘Tis womankind’s equiv’lent of well-hung.
My Moorish brethren, thou canst not deny
That round cheeks in thy visage get thee sprung.
O, Rump-o’-smooth-skin, fain get in my Benz,
For weary am I now of meager tail.
Come frolic in the highlands’ heathered glens
Whilst Mix-a-Lot harpoons thee like a whale.
Nay, proffer not a buttock frail or flat,
Nor plastic bosoms forged by engineers.
My anaconda fancies none of that,
But yearns to nestle ‘twixt two juicy spheres.
Sidebends or situps, do ’til out you conk,
But pray, lose not thy sweet badonkadonk.