I threw out all my pants today.
I did not like them anyway.
They were too tiny for my arse,
I’ve set my bottom free at last
It’s time to let my derriere
get loose and let it get some air
because, to tackle tasks with ease
your vulva needs a steady breeze.
Acrylic, nylon, polyester,
stuff that lets infections fester;
if it’s designed by blokes and chaps
it is not healthy for your flaps.
I do not know why anyone
would want to have a hungry bum
and spend, oh, twenty quid a go
on things that give you camel toe.
I’ve swapped my high leg, low rise lace,
my itchy guts, my squinty face,
for pants extending up my torso –
like a sturdy vest, but more so.
They come in packs of five, or triples,
they nestle underneath my nipples.
They are not made of see through netting,
they mop up when my boobs are sweating.
The question that we all should ask
is – Are these pants that multi-task?
Is it really underwear
if you can’t keep your keys in there?
I cannot run or dance or laugh
with my butt cheeks cut in half.
I cannot argue or clap back
with knickers half way up my crack
I can’t think clearly, I am edgy
when I have a giant wedgie.
These times are tough, resolve must harden
so be kind to your lady garden.
Be kind to yourself, full stop.
And let your body flow and flop
all over rigid patriarchy.
I’ve had it with this ‘should’ malarkey:
‘Should’ and ‘must’ can take a hike –
I’ll wear the fucking pants I like.