I read in this thread about an undergarment called the Butt Bra. It moved me to write the following. So grab your acoustic guitar, don your vegan Birkenstocks and join me in singing:
The Ballad Of Ms. Barry’s Butt Bra.
Come gather 'round, sisters, and listen to me
Of the wicked, vindictive old patriarchy.
The sexists have vexed us with corsets and chains.
They shackled our bodies to shackle our brains.
We once were oppressed by their customs and laws.
So we found liberation in burning our bras.
We burned all our bras and we suddenly knew
That our bosoms were free, and our spirits were, too.
But men couldn’t bear it to have women free.
The plotted to bring back the patriarch.
They schemed and they plotted for days and for weeks
And made a brassiere to wear on your butt cheeks.
They’d have us believe – and now isn’t this nice –
That it was a woman who made this device.
No woman would do it, of that we are sure,
For all men are bad, and all women pure.
So hear my fair warning before it’s too late
Of a woman who wore them, and her tragic fate.
Her name was Ms. Barry, and so you will know,
It was uplifting butt cheeks that brought her so low.
She was a professor of Women’s Studies,
“Political-Lesbian Quilts, 103.”
She never wore makeup, her hair she’d not dye.
Wore denim and boots and a smart bolo tie.
One day as she lectured upon Chapman Catt,
She wondered, "Does the feminist dialectic of the Goddess Within as it pertains to body decolonization from the hetero-patriarchal oppressor make my butt look fat?
She wanted a butt that was shapely and small
The forces of lookism had her in thrall.
In a moment of weakness she turned Quisling,
And all 'cause her buttocks sat on her hamstrings.
She threw away Dworkin and Morgan and Hooks,
She traded pure gold in for men’s dirty looks.
She bought a butt bra and she wore it with pride,
That her butt was now higher and not quite so wide.
But like a crack addict who always needs more,
She tightened it one notch, then two, and then four.
She tightened it more, like the torturer’s rack.
And hoisted her butt to the small of her back.
Her colleagues all noticed, they thought it quite queer
That she’s now a hunchback, Goddess bless the poor dear.
One morning in march, when hard winds blow strong.
Ms. Barry was trussed up and walking along.
A sister came forward and said, "Please beware,
“Oppressors and their plans for your derriere.”
Ms. Barry, she nodded, polite as can be,
But thought, “Your old rules, they mean nothing to me.”
The spring air was rent by a horrible sound,
Ms. Barry, bewildered, look down and around.
“Beware the oppressor,” her sister still cried.
Ms. Barry looked down and was then horrified.
The left strap had broken and given away!
It made her lopsided, she started to sway.
Like schooners whose cargo breaks loose in the hold,
Ms. Barry, unbalanced, now foundered and rolled.
“Beware the oppressor!” her sister 'gain cried.
And then the strap snapped on the other side.
Three sheets to the wind now, Ms. Barry cried "Woe!
“Oh who’ll save a lass when the ass straps all go?”
She shuddered to starboard and shivered to port,
While thinking of lawsuits she’d file in court.
“Beware the oppressor!” the sister 'gain said.
But Barry’s butt dropped, drawing blood from her head.
She was in a fog, all adrift, couldn’t see.
And was mowed down by some man in his SUV.
Come all you young sisters and listen to me.
Don’t hand your butt over to patriarchy.
Come hark to the wisdom your sisters have found.
If you keep your butt up, men are keeping you down.