The legend lives on from Superior on down
Of the big butt they called "Bitchin' Booty"
Her tush, it is said, never went underfed
Nor the thighs of this Rubenesque cutie
With a load of pure lard more than one cubic yard
Shaped and formed and secured quite severely
By trusses and lace she would have to replace
When the meals of November came yearly

The cost of her clothes, from her pants to her hose
Was a source of financial dilution
And she said this must stop as she went out to shop
For a one-size-fits-all wear solution
Concluding some buys where they clothed the plus-sized
She was loaded with garments and dresses
Of latex and silk, reinforced to the hilt
All designed to endure any stresses

As the autumn sun shone, she headed for home
And set up in front of the mirror
She strutted and posed in all her new clothes
Convinced that she couldn't look dearer
She admired her form in each thing to be worn
And she loved the new shape of her booty
Ev'ry stretchmark and lump and badonkadonk bump
Was compressed to some semblance of beauty

When harvest time came, the field hands exclaimed
Sayin', "This'll be one to remember."
With abundance assured, invitations were heard
Sayin', "Come join our feast this November"
Miss "Booty" joined in, chowing down with her kin
On a bounty so rich they could all share
But on Thanksgiving night as she downed her last bite
Came the wreck of the one-size-fits-all wear

Does any one know where digested fat goes
When the stomach and colon get sated
Researchers all quip that it heads for the hips
Where it stays and expands unabated
The impending demise should have been no surprise
There were signs they all should have minded
Like reflections so bright from her spandex so tight
That it left nearly half of them blinded

Then a fiber gave way and it started to fray
And her panties they started unravelin'
Soon zippers and stays burst forth in a blaze
No telling how fast they were travelin'
It was done in a flash, leavin' no time to dash
For the door or to duck and take cover
When the dust settled down, there was blood on the ground
There were many who'd never recover

In a musty old barn on a midwestern farm
The survivors all muttered a sad prayer
The church bell chimed, it rang twenty-nine times
For the victims of one-size-fits-all wear
The legend lives on from Superior on down
Of the big butt they call "Bitchin' Booty"
"No fabric," they said, "had the strength in its thread
To contain the expanse of her beauty!"