Dear Babalu,
There’s a bolus in my colon and
It’s feeling very swollen.
I’m losing my control and
I don’t know what to do.

What malady am I facing?
Oh, this letter I must hasten.
In a moment I’ll be racing
To the loo.

South of my Mason Dixon,
This thing is playing tricks on me.
She grips me like a vixen and
It’s coming out like goo.

If discretion must constrain us,
Let’s use Latin to explain this.
There’s a pain in my anus,
In fact, quite a phew.

I’ve been the private son,
But these runs become quite public.
Public Enema number one.
(How I long for number two.)

Please favor with an answer;
Just let it not be cancer.
I’ll forever be your fan, sir.
Can I rely on you?

Feeling Empty, R. W.

Dear Feeling Empty,
If there’s full evacuation,
And a slowing micturation,
You’re not only quite empty,
You’re also very dry.

Post haste to rehydration,
Your only real salvation,
Or you’ll shrivel like a dew drop
And that's no way to die.

A pinch of sugar and a pinch of salt
In a glass of water (or in a chocolate malt)
Before each bathroom run,
And soon you'll feel quite spry.

And you and all your friends,
Your hands please always cleanse,
Or you’ll pass on the bends.
I swear I would not lie.

If you can’t keep fluids down,
I’m afraid it’s off to town
To see the doctor frown
And place an IV line.

I do hope that my writing
Has not been overly frightening
And that when the running slows,
You will return to prose.