o, my remedial colon {a poem that has nothing to do with punctuation marks}

It's true: I have no shame. If you read my post about the smoothies and fiber, then you know exactly what I mean.

Ahem ...



My colon is remedial,
I cannot tell a lie.
Some of you might cringe now
Or roll your eyes and sigh.

I’m giving you fair warning
So if you want it, now’s your chance
To stand right up or turn and run
Without a second glance.

Some girls dream of riches
And others dream of fame,
Or handsome men or shopping sprees,
And them I cannot blame.

Today my dreams are smaller
And simple to the core:
A functioning digestive system,
I ask for nothing more.

I never thought I’d say this,
But I now declare it’s true:
All I want is nothing more
Than to have a normal poo.

I’m weary of the bloating
The puffiness and the pain;
I’d like a trip to the bathroom
That does not involve much strain.

I’d really be quite thrilled –
I might do a little dance
If things would move and once again
I could fit inside my pants;

If I could go to the doctor
And without a second thought
Avoid the fine details
Of my time upon the pot.

If I could just be normal,
“Regular” some might say,
Scarce would I be able
To keep my joy at bay.

I’d tell you all about it,
You would be sure to know
There’d be a lightness in my voice,
And to my face, a glow.

But for now it’s mine to try
Every laxative known to man:
Powders, pills, and flaxseeds
With my fiber-full eating plan.

Miralax and slippery elm,
Psyllium and dried plum;
Smooth move tea and senna leaf
All moved through my bum.

I don’t care where it comes from,
What it is that makes it move,
So long as I am able
To get back into a groove.

On the outside I look healthy,
Young and full of joie de vivre,
But on the inside I think I just had
Birthday number ninety-three.

And so I sigh and moan all day,
Praying for the end
To this profound constipation
Which is nothing like a friend.

I’m swelling to my limits,
The bloating is quite a sight.
If these aids don’t work, I just might need
A stick of dynamite.

And so my dear intestine,
I beg you to cooperate
To get in gear and do your job,
To free the padlocked gate.

I’m doing everything I can
To give what you require,
To be gentle in my coaxing,
To move the stubborn mire.

I’d really be so thankful,
I want it more than wealth
If you would let me live and move,
Enjoying better health.

I guess I’m done, the poem is over
There’s nothing more to do,
But hope and pray and watch and wait
For the perfect number two.


:o)