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.
