Congratulations! Today is your day. You’re off to Great Places! You’re off and away!

You have stopped nursing baby.

You’ve deflated with speed.

You have fallen, sunk deeper with mind numbing ease.

You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And sadly, it’s you who’ll decide where to go.

You’ll look up and down belly, rib cage and hair. About some you’ll say, “I don’t choose to go there.”

With your lump in your bra, you’ll head down towards feet. An unpleasant position, wrapped in defeat.

It’s opener there in the wide open air.

Down there things can happen and frequently do, to nipples as eager and flatbound as you.

And when things start to happen, don’t worry. Don’t stew. Just go right along. You’ll start flattening too.

That training bra demotion was quite the coo for a motivated, belt tucker-inner like you.

With a lift and two inserts, you’ll be on your way up!

Less worry about the former size of your cup.

You’ll come down from the top when night-time has come

Unclasping yourself is not easily done.

You can get so confused that you’ll start in to race down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space, headed, I fear toward a most useless place. The belly.

….for skin just sagging.

Sagging from the stretchy skin or the flab that has been or the rib cage expansion or the wish for a mansion. Sagging from the extra food, the childbirth, the aging, the pillow-top cover that’s become the main staging. Sagging from cuddling up under a blanket and now you’d be better mummy-wrapped in a slanket.

With lace pattern flip-flapping, once more you’ll ride high! Yeah right! For the most part, they’ll rest on your thigh.

No drummers, click-clackers or men with violas. The lack of a send-off for our areolas. Like two cobs of corn, it won’t help to yell louder. They’re still going to end up as dip in your chowder.

Oh, the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done! There are points to be scored. There are games to be won. Like the game where your chest becomes a black hole, and you’re beaten ten times by an expert Whack-a-Mole. You have no appetite, you’re sick with no palate, your breasts now resembling the whack-a-mole mallet.

Onward up many a frightening creek, though your arms may get sore and your nipples may leak.

On and on you will sink and I know you’ll sink far, face first into belt loops, wherever they are.

You’ll get mixed up, of course, as you already know. You’ll get mixed up with many strange spanx as you go. So be sure when you fall, fall with care and great tact and remember that bra’s a Great Illusionist’s Act.

Just never forget to be dexterous and deft. And never mix up your right cup with your left.

You can flop down with ease when you are trampolining, all thanks to your kids and the time they took weaning.

You’re in the wrong bra, you were once double D, 98 and 3/4 per cent guaranteed…..

Kids! You’re not mountains!

So…..be their names Fun Bags, the Melons or Twinkies, what we have now ladies are two second stair slinkies ….no need for Vogue, Maiden Form, tuck away.

They’re mountains no longer oh….why won’t they stay?