The pleasures of a colonosc.
I wouldn’t wish on my dog Rosc.
The doc walks in, serene and dap.;
He grabs a flexible contrap.
Of steel; inserts it up your rect.
And guides it through your whole midsect. (!)
To learn if you might have a pol.
(You’re drugged, but still, this is intol.)
The worst of it’s the day just prev.
When you must swallow unbeliev.
Amounts of ghastly, putrid liq.
Which makes your bowels behave despic.,
And keeps you in the water clos.
Where you’re a hose without a noz.
It seems a shame that any mort.
Should undergo such gruesome tort.
A Good Soak
Of all of the pleasures this weary world hath,
One that stands out is, quite simply, the bath.
To lie there immersed in a sweet-smelling tub
Is the next thing to heaven — one’s own private club.
Alas, there are those, with my interests at heart,
Who feel that the bathtub and I need to part.
“You’re now ‘of an age,’ ” they bemoan; “You could slip;
A fine fare-thee-well, as you might break a hip.
Or else, even worse, you could damage your head,
And then it’s the nursing home, if you’re not dead.”
I block out their bleatings, and do as I please
(Though not, I’ll admit, with my previous ease).
I’m not against showers; they’re fine now and then,
But only a bath lets you whisper “Amen.”
So it’s rare I appear, having docilely showered;
To give up my bath? That’s the mark of a coward!
Mae Scanlan can’t remember a time when she didn’t write humorous verse. Happily, she’s managed to get a fair amount of it published, in both the U.S. and the U.K. Her other addictions are song writing, photography, and The Washington Post’s Style Invitational.