Sir Mix-a-Lot I'm Not

Following my last post, the fantabulous Doctor Mama quipped that I should send off some of my deeply silly old-school rhymes.

"How does one get a job writing rap lyrics?" I wondered, "Dear Sirs: The Inuit have over seventy words for snow. I myself have over eighty for desirable female buttocks."

"You should see if you COULD do eighty for the buttocks," replied Doc M. Because she's a sadist. "First do no harm"? Yeah, RIGHT. How about the irreparable harm my brain has suffered as a result of actually compiling such a list?

And so, without further ado: The Assified Eighty. I'm going to go lie down. On my stomach, of course.

Alright, okay, let's get this started, hon… here's eighty synonyms for buns
There are some Gentiles that like to call 'em hams
Keepin' Kosher? Then how 'bout servin' up two helpings of mac 'n DAMN!
And for dessert, a sweet, sweet bon bon
Or if that don't make ya moan, perhaps you'd be tempted by a double-dip without the cone?
If it's fly, it's called callipygian
Or if that's causin' confusion, do the medical thang and call it a sub-sacral protrusion
You can pound, you can thump, you can shimmy that rump
You can boom, you can zoom, you can float those balloons
If you're a shortie, young 'n whiny, you just call that thing a heinie
Sir Mix-a-Lot informed us that she gotta pack much back
Was he lookin' in a crystal ball with a big ol' crack?
Alone, he stood and shouted out about the juicy double
Today, everyone's runnin', hustlin', tryin' to pop that bubble
He knew it takes a special woman to wave that round thing in your face
Ain't nothin' knockin' her over when she got that solid base
It's like Epcot center, with a big ol' indent-er
It's soft and it's cute, like the Georgia state fruit
All over the world, makin' men go, "Whoa!": if you're a Latino, get a load of that culo
If G-d's chosen people happen to be the look-ahs, you better believe it'll be a tuchus
And 'though Brit-speak is damned hard to parse, we all understand when they're talkin' arse
Mad props to the English; they're versatile like that, god bless the queen and all hail the prat
Thought the UK was done? Not unless we mention bum
Firm or squishy, in thong or not, it's a double-shot of 80-proof hot
There's always room for Jell-O; that shit don't get old, so let's call it a jiggler cause it don't fit no mold
That thing's out of bounds, so talkin' 'bout sweetness, let's just call them mounds
If it's barrelin' right towards you, call it a caboose
It's small and it's playful? Well, then turn them puppies loose!
If you're into disco, you can shake your groove thing
Into hip-hop? Then check out them nuggets of bling
To get poetic, it's a dewdrop the male eye absorbs
Getting' celestial, they're a pair of high-gravity orbs
A small constellation that makes fellas swoon; although they're red-hot, they're still known as the moon
If you're staying on this planet, try the Southern hemisphere
Hell, go to Antarctica, so long as it's got rear
But take some provisions, perhaps in a can
Some rolls
and some muffins of hotness (not bran)
In the Alps? You can slide down those double-diamond slopes
Fly to Cali, get an taste of some flesh cantaloupes
It's over, it's done, time to head on homes, to your houses, your trailers, your geodesic domes
Squares are for squares; when a nice round booty appears
Just give up that key and we'll unlock them spheres
A'ight, okay, so fullerenes ain't quite the norm...
You can still build your mansion on an adipose platform
'Cause everybody's cravin' a nice, firm fundament
Straight-up sexy shelter, just like a two-room tent
Even lookin' towards the future, you gotta look at the behind
Goin' all Nostradamus on an apocalyptic hind
Gotta get down to the bottom of things
Get a handle on that sexy sack
Brace your eyes and groin for that dual-pronged attack
Cause she's got a moneymaker and is ready to shake 'er
Wigglin' that derriere from here to there
Puttin' some skin-tight clothes on them marshmallows
Gotta love the XX gender, from those headlights to that rear fender
Sleek and sexy, with all that junk in the trunk
It's a stone-cold, rock-solid gluteal chunk
It's the illustrious J. Lo's claim to fame
Even the WNBA girls got some back-court game
At the risk of soundin' crass, you gotta, gotta love that ass
Round or flat, narrow or wide, ain't nothin wrong with some backside
Ain't gotta be Secretary of the Interior, to go wild for the posterior
Ain't gotta be the Army, settin' off mortars, to wanna deploy troops to the hindquarters
On MST3K (if you need a reminder), those lil' robots called it a hinder
Funny, Girl, how it's called a fanny though without the Brice
And how mamas use tushie when tryin' to be nice
They're more than nice, they're golden, those squishy globes
Anatomically perfect, that's those dorsal lobes
Essentially, potentially pinchable cheeks
Scalable, impalable southernly peaks
Can't go wrong with butt
Or for those that it shocks, the tame, the clinical, the ol'-fashioned buttocks
You'd best have a seat
We're drawin' to an end
We're guessin' you learned a little 'bout Tag Team's best friend
Whoomp! There Is Is, so don't go turnin' tail
C'mon and run your fingers over the letter "C" in Braille
Golly, heck and gee, sir, there ain't nothin' like the keister
Time to sail, mateys, hope we helped you learn, 'bout the timber-shiverin' wonders of buoys astern