Ooh, wooed the baby; "Mama, it's time to dine.
Tear open your chest and show me those breasts
I yearn to dine on before going to rest."

As if on command, your buttons unsnap.
Nestling closer, I begin to lap
at two deliciously tasty orbs full of milk
wrapped in containers that feel like silk.

I close my eyes; you sit back to rest
as I sip and nip, and you gently caress,
me, your child, who wantonly smiles
finding your feeders highly versatile,
generous, while hanging deftly erogenous,
though at my age, I know not why.

Scrumptious to taste, not a drop do I waste,
burping and slurping once I'm fixed in place.
They've been that way since the day of my birth,
incredibly useful since my arrival on earth,
as it is highly unlikely, I'll order takeout,
though in reality, what I eat is, no doubt.

With yummy in my tummy and fully sated,
I whisper in our own way of communicating,
"Listen, mom, I'll be coming back a little later,
so how about keeping them babies warm?"