ODE TO CONSTIPATION
Dark velvet hour twinges,
A glance, a glower that singes,
He rises, lonely from his bed that clings,
Muttering, suffering to that room,
Whole body to assume,
The foetal and the womb.
Whilst veins start a phase, of pain soon to raise,
Indicative vessels of soul searching toil,
When fists bunch up into gut wrenching boil,
To escape the body.
Ditch the nugget, To lug it, to tug it---
Release it, not hug it!
Lean forward, sit back,
Is surely the knack,
Now on the right track, Furrowed brow set to wrack,
Oh transitory rose, what constipatory prose.
Sweet sighs of the purgence,
Of that great emergence!
G Nicholas Flint 15-11-2014