I’m bringing my breast pump to India
Indeed it is true.
You may think I’m an idiot,
Well, I think I’m one too.
Pumping on and Indian train and at the Taj Mahal,
It seems no matter where I pump, I’ll be hot as balls.
And when my milk is all dried up
despite my best attempt,
My pump will look me in the eyes and say:
“I’m just so glad we went.”
Dear G-ma Doyle,
I love you very much, you know, but there’s something I must say.
It’s about a little outfit I had on the other day.
I know you think I’m cute as a button, and pretty as a Rose,
But my mommy posted this damn pic, and now everybody knows.
Yes my middle name’s a flower; in-deed it is true.
But wearing petals ’round my head makes me want to spew.
