I like BIG PANTS and I cannot lie
You other mothers can’t deny
When a girl walks in with a little string
You roll your eyes and sigh –

Your arse would gob-ble up that thong
Can’t sit in it for very long
It’s gonna chafe and it isn’t safe
‘Cos elastic ain’t that strong.

Gut not as flat as it used to be?
Skin wrinkled and all wobbily?
Let’s not bicker ‘bout an outsize knicker
‘Cos it’s now the new sexy!

No time or cash for Vicky’s Secret
If it’s mini you can bloody keep it
You young thin varmints have your tiny garments
Big’s best – you cannot beat it!

I’m not bitter or the least unhinged
Your pant choice shouldn’t be infringed –
I’d just like to see the world feel free
To be all snuggly-minged.

Little pants are really just a fad –
And they don’t support a Tena pad.
Plus the lace does itch on your c-scar stitch
And drives you batshit mad!

In the end you’re gonna just say ‘fuck it’,
And reach for an enormous bucket –
That can suck you in up to your chin
And has a nice wide gusset.

They’d make a splendid parachute
And never be described as ‘cute’ –
Just like Granny wore and you always swore
Would never touch your glutes!

I like BIG PANTS and I cannot lie
Though your partner’s gonna wanna cry –
If it’s not com-fy then it’s not for me
Pre-mum pants can go fly.  

It’s time, ladies, to expunge
The horrors faced by your poor clunge
It’s what you’re owed having been re-sewed
So let’s all take the plunge!

BIG PANTS are part of being a mum
A kindness to your vag and tum –
Just let it go and make it so
And don’t shortchange your bum  

Big enough to make a national flag –
They’ll hold up all that excess sag
Plain ol’ cotton over your whole bottom
Added chastity and anti-shag!

In the end they kind of smooth your line
Not a heinous fashion crime –
Five quid a pack and you’ll not look back
Be a panty philistine!

Doesn’t matter if they reach your breasts –
There’s no one to be that impressed
Tuck ‘em in or out that’s your own shout –
Now it’s time we all confessed:

And as much as we’d like to try –
We’re far too knackered to be undercrackered
In pants that don’t rise high.


Or you can also call me Ms Hics-a-Lot.  (You know, because of the wine.  And Sir Mix-a-Lot. OK, never mind).