Constipation hell worse than perdition


Less than twenty-four hours after dashing off a poem 

   explaining why i wanted to die

found me experiencing physical duress vis a vis, 

   a bowel movement wherein waste unable to expel 

   from the anus of this guy

which bout with rectal obstruction 

   found me doubled over with lower abdominal distress 

   whereby comfort found me unable to lie

down nor sit upright (with back padded with pillows 

   against the cellar brick wall), 

   thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh

and managed to muster the means to bare 

   frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase 

   the Acme brand Metamucil, which akin to Drano doth ply

thru the excretory tract supposedly loosening the stools, 

   which optimism (product didst earn claim to fame) generated a sigh

if that expressed intent to cease LivingSocial would try

humph enjoining this lvii year old married male 

   to cede victory to the grim reaper, who would vie

as winner de jure to this common fellow invoking libretto 

   ohm resistant understudy waste not want not 

allowing, enabling and providing relief, 

   without successful defecation 

   despite the oppressive urge to bolster this Uriah 

heap of balled up and tuckered out five foot and ten inches of lovely bones 

   thence mouthing retraction of former thought to cease existing

though a non-bull lever in any power broker qua mankind

   relief at long last provided posterior answered prayer 

   yet, this scrivener scrutinizes his recurring pain in the ass jagged torture

   and asks a rhetorical one word question "WHY"?






Constipation hell worse than perdition

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