A pat-down poem

There once was a woman

Who stood in the queue.

She needed a pat down,

She bypassed the walk-through.

Along with the woman

Were bags full of stuff,

That needed some testing,

'Cause it was holistic and she didn't want it put through the x-ray. GAH!!

Sorry.

The woman was nice,

a little peculiar.

She had an aroma

That wafted around her.

What was that smell?

It wasn't that bad

But my nose kept telling me

BREATHE THROUGH YOUR MOUTH.

Spice...yes spice!

I figured it out.

Cloves was the smell,

There wasn't a doubt.

I started to pat her,

she chatted away;

When I got to the front

I was a little afraid.

Where were her boobs?

They should be right there!

Her chest was so flat

She could have gone bare.

I quite nearly panicked,

'cause soon enough

I'd be using my hand

to pat down her *stuff.*

I began to explain

That I needed to swipe,

Beneath her breast

And what it would look like.

As I performed the pat down

On my own shapely boob,

I nearly recoiled

At what she started to do.

Her own two hands

Reached down to her waist;

And grabbed two tits

That were nestled in place.

On her waist.

ON. HER. WAIST.

She grabbed them I tell you,

And lifted them up;

(mind you she grabbed them over her shirt thank GOD)

She was being so helpful,

But still... what the FUCK!

Pardon my language,

Don't mean to offend;

But this part of my job

Sucks.

The End.