Poem of the Solemn Thong

This is a poem I wrote based on an anecdote told by a very, very open professor. So it's not a result of my personal experience. But you know, I can't say I necessarily disagree with her.

Oh, how I loathe my thong
A'nestled deep within my bum,
I can't retrieve it out of there,
It chafes me when I run!

It started when my husband
Grew so tired of my panties,
And warned me that he'd leave me
If I didn't up the ante.

And so he bought this thong for me,
To which I said, "No, thank you."
"Just put it on," said he to me,
"I'll surely want to spank you."

He placed the thong within my hands
As mesh as it was orange,
"And when we're having sex," he beamed,
"We'll hang it on the door hinge!"

So with a sigh I put it on,
That wretched, see-through thing,
I hoped that it would do me good
And make the boys go "schwing!"

That brings me to the present day,
In which I am still trying
To wear my thong with moxie
Whilst my ass is slowly dying.

This twat sling shot within my pants,
A'fastened with two strings,
It makes me want to murder, for
My natal cleft, it stings!

"Please stop right now, I'm choking!"
My abysmal booty screams.
"You shut your fucking hole," I say,
"And look good in my jeans!"

I tell my girlfriends of these plights,
"and too, it gives me gas!"
"Just stick it out," they say,
"And it will surely come to pass."

Of course, it's not all sorrow,
This intrusion in my butt,
Some days I quite enjoy it
When I'm feeling like a slut.

Yet, most days, I fear forever
That my rear will feel so wrong
Trapped in skimpy polyester,
Oh, my thong. My thong. My thong.