Most women are happy When greatly endowed With a bosom that’s ample, Stick out in a crowd, While men will enjoy The view near and far, Forever they’d feast At a bosom bizarre. But a certain young lady Owes her life to her chest And the garment she wears In support of her breast. Alone in her home On the streets of Detroit, The safety of night A thug would exploit. The sounds of a gun Erupting outside So she looked through her curtain From her window inside. When a bullet crashed though The window and struck Her underwire bra - Misfortune’s good luck. Deflecting the slug, That harmlessly fell To the ground she was left With a story to tell.