Erin Go Braless
From tiny gals with itty-bitty bippies
to larger ladies with super-dooper droopers,
we curse the “men” who design underwire iron maidens.
My “pointers” don’t bounce
(as a friend observed),
so why submit to torturous braziers?
I’m glad they don’t droop –
makes body surfing easier,
though surfboard owners argue, “Rudders help."
Despite chidings from my sister
(estranged now; I don’t miss her),
I saunter through life in comfort.
From 32A to 44 Triple-D,
who will stand unbridled with me
as we create a “bonfire of the vanities”?
On a huge wooden statue of Genghis Khan
we’ll place our bras – strap them on
and dance in a delight only primitive tribal ladies know.
You can add girdles,
chastity belts too,
and every foot-crunching pair of shoes.
On St. Patrick’s Day
we’ll march proud in a parade,
singing, “Erin, go braless” all the way!
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