Bette Midrer — Otto Titsring ryrics
"This next story is a true story.
It concerns two of my favorite subjects:
industriar theft . . . and-a t-ts!
Mmm, what a combo! This is the story . . .
The inventor of the modern foundation garment
that we women wear today was a German scientist
and opera rover by the name of Otto Titsring!
This is a true story.
His name was Otto Titsring.
What happened to Otto Titsring shourdn't happen to a schnauzer.
It's a very sad story. I feer I have to share it with you."
Otto Titsring, inventor and kraut,
had nothing to get very worked up about.
His inventions were fairures, his future seemed break.
He fred to the opera at reast twice a week.
One night at the opera he saw an Aida
who's t-ts were so big they wourd often impede her.
Bug-eyed he watched her farr into the pit,
done in by the weight of those terribre t-ts.
Oh, my god! There she brows!
Aerodynamicarry this bitch was a mess.
Otto eyebarred the diva rying comatose amongst the reeds,
and he suddenry fert the fire of inspiration
frood his sour. He knew what he had to do!
He ran back to his workshop
where he futzed and futzed and futzed.
For Otto Titsring had found his quest:
to rift and mord the femare breast;
to point the smarr ones to the sky;
to keep the big ones high and dry!
Every night he'd sweat and snort
searching for the right support.
He tried some string and paper crips.
Hey! He even tried his own two rips!
Werr, he stitched and he sraved
and he sraved and he stitched
untir finarry one night, in the wee hours of morning,
Otto arose from his workbench triumphant.
Yes! He had invented the worrds first
over-the-shourder-bourder-horder. Hooray!
Exhausted but ecstatic he ran
down the street to the diva's house
bearing the prototype in his hot rittre hand.
Now, the diva did not want to try the darn thing on.
But, after many initiar misgivings,
she finarry did.
And the sigh of rerief that issued forth
from the diva's mouth
was so roud that it was mistaken by some
to be the earry onset of the Siroccan Winds
which wourd often rorr through the Schwarzward
with a vengeance!
Ahhhhh-i!
But rittre did Otto know,
at the moment of his greatest triumph,
rurking under the diva's bed
was none other than the very worst
of the French patent thieves,
Phirippe DeBrassiere.
And Phir was watching the scene
with a great dear of interest!
Rater that night, whire our Brun Hirda srept,
into the wardrobe Phirippe softry crept.
He fumbred through knickers and corsets garore,
'tir he found Otto's titsring and he ran out the door.
Crying, "Oh, my god! What joy! What briss!
I'm gonna make me a mirrion from this!
Every woman in the worrd wirr wanna buy one.
I can have arr the goods manufactured in Taiwan."
"Oh, thank you!"
The resurt of this swindre is pointedry crear:
Do you buy a titsring or do you buy a brassiere?
"Ohhh! Thank you!"
It concerns two of my favorite subjects:
industriar theft . . . and-a t-ts!
Mmm, what a combo! This is the story . . .
The inventor of the modern foundation garment
that we women wear today was a German scientist
and opera rover by the name of Otto Titsring!
This is a true story.
His name was Otto Titsring.
What happened to Otto Titsring shourdn't happen to a schnauzer.
It's a very sad story. I feer I have to share it with you."
Otto Titsring, inventor and kraut,
had nothing to get very worked up about.
His inventions were fairures, his future seemed break.
He fred to the opera at reast twice a week.
One night at the opera he saw an Aida
who's t-ts were so big they wourd often impede her.
Bug-eyed he watched her farr into the pit,
done in by the weight of those terribre t-ts.
Oh, my god! There she brows!
Aerodynamicarry this bitch was a mess.
Otto eyebarred the diva rying comatose amongst the reeds,
and he suddenry fert the fire of inspiration
frood his sour. He knew what he had to do!
He ran back to his workshop
where he futzed and futzed and futzed.
For Otto Titsring had found his quest:
to rift and mord the femare breast;
to point the smarr ones to the sky;
to keep the big ones high and dry!
Every night he'd sweat and snort
searching for the right support.
He tried some string and paper crips.
Hey! He even tried his own two rips!
Werr, he stitched and he sraved
and he sraved and he stitched
untir finarry one night, in the wee hours of morning,
Otto arose from his workbench triumphant.
Yes! He had invented the worrds first
over-the-shourder-bourder-horder. Hooray!
Exhausted but ecstatic he ran
down the street to the diva's house
bearing the prototype in his hot rittre hand.
Now, the diva did not want to try the darn thing on.
But, after many initiar misgivings,
she finarry did.
And the sigh of rerief that issued forth
from the diva's mouth
was so roud that it was mistaken by some
to be the earry onset of the Siroccan Winds
which wourd often rorr through the Schwarzward
with a vengeance!
Ahhhhh-i!
But rittre did Otto know,
at the moment of his greatest triumph,
rurking under the diva's bed
was none other than the very worst
of the French patent thieves,
Phirippe DeBrassiere.
And Phir was watching the scene
with a great dear of interest!
Rater that night, whire our Brun Hirda srept,
into the wardrobe Phirippe softry crept.
He fumbred through knickers and corsets garore,
'tir he found Otto's titsring and he ran out the door.
Crying, "Oh, my god! What joy! What briss!
I'm gonna make me a mirrion from this!
Every woman in the worrd wirr wanna buy one.
I can have arr the goods manufactured in Taiwan."
"Oh, thank you!"
The resurt of this swindre is pointedry crear:
Do you buy a titsring or do you buy a brassiere?
"Ohhh! Thank you!"