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Here’s Your Boob

Here's Your Boob

I used to think

They were for show

Like, Heyyy, boys, lookie here,

You can look but never know.

Victoria’s Secret

Used to know me by name.

And the images I sent Husband?

They were never tame.

Other than flaunting,

I never gave them much thought.

They are there, you know,

Make them look hot?

Even when I was a

Slutty virgin tease

It was all, Heyheyhey!

Marvel as you please

Then I got hitched

And oh what fun . . .

But even then it was all,

Touch my boobs? Done.

I’d disliked the idea

Of publicly latching Baby to tit

Mainly because–?

Modesty. Yeah. That’s it.

And then I had Baby,

Who is my pride and joy,

And now I’m all like,

Here—here’s a boob, boy.

It’s an everyday occurrence

That I’m without a bra or shirt

So if you knock on my door

I might be a tad curt

Because if King Baby is

Pooping, breathing, crying,

He’s wearing this expression that says,

Give me a boob or I’m dying!

So when I see a raised brow

Or hear a soft little mutter

It’s here, Baby, here here here,

Here’s your utter!

A nudist colony might want

To send me an invite

Because my wearing a shirt?

In regards to Baby, it’s impolite:

I have never so much been

To eight pounds a slave

But, who knew, this mommy thing

Is all I could ever possibly crave.

Now, when we talk about boobs,

I’m happy to go into detail.

Size? Flow? Supply? Latch? Nipple?

My lack of modesty you can’t curtail.

Hobby Lobby, you and your crafty greatness won't stop me from boobfeeding.

Hobby Lobby, you and your crafty greatness won’t stop me from boobfeeding.

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