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Apologies for that title, it’s not what you think. Or maybe it is … partly.

The reluctant poo made an unexpected reappearance at a funeral last weekend; not somewhere I’d expect it to turn up. I’d long forgotten about it. It was a nonsense poem I’d written over a decade ago. It was so bad I hadn’t even published it on my old ‘secret’ website which existed purely for nonsensical scribblings and rants. But I had shared it with a friend, and she’d kept it. For some reason she resurrected it … and shared it at a gathering of her friends and family the night before the funeral. Now it’s out there, the reluctant poo has broken free. So, I might as well share it myself.

The Reluctant Poo

Here’s an epic tale that’s sad but true,
About an annoying wee bugger, the reluctant poo.
Proceed if you dare, I’ve a cautionary tale tae tell,
How over-indulgence can lead straight tae hell.

It started as usual wi’ a rumble an’ a groan,
As a foul-smelling fart announced it wis time for the throne.
A second, slightly wet one, hastened the need tae depart,
Just in case it turned out tae be mair than a fart.

I dropped ma breeks and plonked doon on the throne,
An wi’ a tingle of anticipation let oot a pleasurable moan.
My belly gurgled wi’ the previous night’s feast,
As I thought ‘right, let’s get rid of this dirty big beast.’

Little did I know when I went for that shite,
I wis in for the mother an’ father of a fight.
My insides rumbled like a circus drum roll,
An’ wi’ a volcanic eruption, I pebble-dashed the bowl.

A potent supper of chilli an’ beer had left me queasy,
I should’ve known this mission wisnae gonnae be easy.
A lingering presence warned that all wisnae right,
With horror I realised I wis still left wi’ half a wee shite.

I huffed an’ I puffed an’ I gave a great heave,
But my caramel-coloured friend wisnae ready tae leave.
He wis stuck halfway, like a wee turtle’s heid,
Maybe I could tempt him oot wi’ a piece of breid.

Half in, half oot, neither one thing nor another,
No matter how hard I squeezed, it widnae go further.
There he sat defiant, neither solid nor runny,
If it hudnae been me, I’d have thought it wis funny.

Three oors I sat on that porcelain loo,
Doing battle wi’ the reluctant poo.
Battered and swollen, ma Farmer Giles were well sore,
From their epic to-do wi’ a jobbie that widnae be shown the door.

I started tae panic, I didnae know whit tae do,
My only companion wis the reluctant poo.
His indecision wis making me feel right glum,
I just wished he’d go, break free from ma bum.

Strength waning, I thought, ‘how embarrassing tae die on the loo,
Struck doon in my prime by a reluctant poo.
At least I’ll have gone like Elvis, the King,
Troosers roon ankles and wi’ a clogged-up ring.’

At the funeral, auld wummin wid say, ‘what a poor wee soul,
killed by a wee jobbie stuck in his hole.’
Just as I was aboot tae give up hope, the bugger broke loose,
An’ wi’ pain and relief I screamed doon the hoose.

The moral? Eat lots of fruit and veg, avoid junk food and slop,
An’ each day you’ll be rewarded wi’ a clean, satisfying plop.

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Jack Montgomery

Jack is an author, travel writer, photographer, and a Slow Travel consultant who has been writing professionally for twenty years. Follow Jack on Facebook for information about his writing, travel tips, photographs, and tales of life in a tiny rural village in Somerset.

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Welcome to my Canvas

Some of the items on this site won’t be to everyone’s liking, I get that. Basically this is my place, my wee studio to mess around in – experimenting with words and thoughts. I’ll be chuffed if you enjoy it, but if you don’t, c’est la vie. As a friend used to tell me “it would be a boring life if we all thought the same.”

Jack Montgomery
A wine press,
On a farm at the end of the dirt track,
The Setúbal Peninsula,