Sometimes our lives, cannot survive, with false perpetual smiles,
Especially when you, spend your life in the loo, with re-occurring piles,
The time that I spend, above the U-bend, crippled with emotion,
Temperature rise, bloodshot eyes, just going through the motions.

Regardless of girth, it’s like giving birth, to an encrusted iron bar,
Or a packet of half-used razor blades, or a hedgehog shaped like a star,
And dieting, is an important thing, to contemplate on the loo,
Roughage is great, upon the plate, but can be hazardous too.

A curried veal brisket, and whether to risk it, and intricate planning ahead,
But I’m no fool, because a burning stool, has cauterised them as they’ve bled,
Don’t allow nuts, to enter your guts, as they escape your digestive bile,
And tomato skins are like passing pins, perforating each waiting pile.

Then there’s the wait, as they depart through your gate, willing a reduction in size,
But you turn to despair, as they dangle down there, ignorant to your cries,
You shuffle your feet, return to your seat, and bite the top of your pen,
Then sit there in fear, with your throbbing rear, and contemplate going again.

So, what’s the solution? To rectal ablutions, to end my burning dilemma?
Pile-surgery, bum-ectomy or an ice cream Sundae enema?
I’ve suffered depravity, a camera in my cavity, to establish the cause of the pain,
I’ve gone through the spectrum, of tests to my rectum, but the answer is plain.

So. It’s off to the Clinic, believe me no picnic, to get them remedied there,
Have them injected, where they’ve resurrected, and cause them to vanish to air,
Haemorrhoids, asteroids and good old Farmer Giles,
Are funny for some, but it’s really no fun, having a cavity full of Piles!

Liam Weatherill