the hemorrhoid

Maybe a deep thinker

Like the brilliant Dr. Freud

Could tell me why I'm tortured

By this constant hemorrhoid.

All I know is mornings

When the bird is on the wing,

I'm locked into my throne room

Hoping this time it won't sting.

Ointments?  I have many,

But the little that they do

Isn't worth the bother

Of the way I'm spreading goo.

A hot bath is a pleasant time

To soak this care away;

But how long can a working stiff

Inside his bathtub stay?

Often when I'm sitting down

I'll feel a little tickle,

Which keeps on getting worse and worse

Until I'm in a pickle.

I have to then excuse myself

And hope that a bidet

Is somewhere in the building

And there's nothing in its way.

Maybe I should have the doc

Go in and do some snipping;

But that's all that I really need –

A new hole in the ripping!

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