This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

I've bought a pair of knickers
Like I've never bought before.
I'm usually quite perfunctory
Whilst in the knicker store.

All my life long, I've only had
The kind you wouldn't mind
To be caught in if you got run down
That doctors must needs find.

They're always black, and always high,
The sort the army hides in
(But only once I've vacated),
That hold your tum and sides in.

I've never suffered V.P.L.,
Or minded when it's gusty;
I suppose my style has always been
Quite granny-fied and fusty.

That's not to say my pants are stale,
Or that I don't oft change;
Indeed, clean knickers on my bum
Make me feel fresh-arranged.

However, this classic design
Has always graced me bits,
For I have found this one design
Is perfect; it just fits.

But times are changing fast and hard,
And things aren't what they were;
The fabric's thin, the sewing loose,
The label's all a-blur.

The knickers that I've had a while
Have all had patches sewn in;
The newest ones are cheap and crap,
And yet my bank is groanin'.

The cost of knickers now, you know,
Has rocketed sky high!
I only want some good value,
But these just make me cry.

And so, my pride around my knees,
A Marks and Spencers trip
Was on the cards this afternoon,
To hide both bum and hip.

And do you know? They had a sale!
Some basic pants like mine
Were on the rail in just my size,
But then! I saw the sign.

"Buy three for a tenner"? "Alright," said I,
And I shuffled through the rack;
And there, the glorious pants appeared,
All lace, in just my black.

Now, you would think that such as I,
So sexy, charming, sweet,
Would have a lad with whom to share
A lacy, naughty treat.

But no, I fear, I'm on my own
(Though I love a simple life);
I'm not a girlfriend, lover or
Domesticated wife.

But single girls have bottoms too,
And random other parts,
And we desire to be desired,
E'en though we break no hearts.

And so, the knickers were forthwith
Surreptitiously stuffed in
The basket (under bigger pants,
As though they were a sin).

I paid for them with deepening blush,
And smuggled home black lace;
In solitude, I unpacked them,
Perplexed look on my face.

Because, dear friend, with whom I share
This silly, bonkers rhyme,
I've got a problem, I'll admit,
With these knickers, though sublime.

It isn't that they're the wrong size,
Or that they don't have glitter.
It isn't that the bank is low,
Or that need has made me bitter.

It's simply that I just don't know
(And here I'll be quite blunt),
These sexy lacy black knickers
Don't have a back or front!

I mean, they'll hold my bits in fine,
And they are just my size,
But... Well, it's Krypton Factor time right now,
And what would be the prize?

I'd like to show a picture of
My most embarassing buy,
But Bridget Jones has nowt on me,
And I don't need laughers-by.

So I'll keep my knickers in the drawer,
And sometimes when I'm bored,
I'll take them out and fantasize
Of the time that I once scored.

Reality, they'll never see;
They'll not be seen by blokes,
For I'd have my knickers back to front,
And I'd rather tell my jokes.

To be the butt of a laughing matter
Is not the aim of knickers.
I'd rather have my butt in them,
And not hear teasing snickers.

I'll just admire the lacy stuff,
And wear my massive pants,
And maybe once a year I'll don
The lace for a sexy dance.

Maybe...

This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.