I tell the tale

Much better now I must say.

At first I thought I was going to die,
As my blood ran down the Loo;
Asking the obvious question “Why
Am I crapping blood not poo?”

I thought I’d have to say goodbye
To my family and my chums.
To perish, how undignified,
At the mercy of my bum

There must be something of this pain
Written in some book,
So in the library I tried to name
This method of the reaper’s hook.

The doctor prescribed some pretty pills
With names that I could not pronounce.
I’m afraid they did not cure my ills,
Stem the flow, or stop the spills.

So soon it sadly came to pass
That I had a great indignity.
They put a camera up my arse;
The dreadful colonoscopy

Maybe acupuncture
Could give me some relief?
Use the force of pins, and chi
To minimise my grief.

Nothing seemed to do the trick,
From enemas to rabbits ears.
I went from ill to really sick
Over thirteen really sticky years.

I knew the precise location
Of every toilet in my town,
But often in some unknown station
I became the crying clown

Strange how this thing can change your life,
Raising stress, and causing strife;
Make you wary of adventure
(And travel such a risky venture)

Six hours of Infliximab on a drip,
Would cure my strangely painful knees,
But never seemed to have the kick,
To cast out this crap disease.

“In my end is my beginning” says the poet;
And it turned out so to be.
I was eventually disemboweled.
(They prefer the word "Colectomy")

I'm getting a bit puffed out with the fine detail in this rather crass ode, but I shall return and pick away at it as inspiration suggests and time allows.

I have to go to sleep now.