| Where the exit-door leads in
|
| he scrutinises circling clockwise
|
| counting two out of the three
|
| slightly above the first degree
|
| «Has there been blood?»
|
| he asks politely as once a year we do explore
|
| with my head resting on the pillow
|
| gateways towards
|
| Plutonian shores
|
| Some are caused by downward pressure
|
| so don’t strain when opening bowels
|
| the simple joys of maidenhood
|
| the red-eyed fox is on the prowl
|
| Rubber-bands for arteries
|
| these Indian seeds do soak like flees
|
| reduce the use of salts and lose some weight
|
| walk half an hour every day
|
| I openly dislike your vagueness
|
| in handling hours we appoint
|
| but when you choose
|
| your pronouns rightly
|
| I do silently rejoice
|
| Some are caused by downward pressure
|
| so don’t strain when opening bowels
|
| the simple joys of maidenhood
|
| the red-eyed fox is on the prowl
|
| So listen closely girls and boys
|
| this song is about hemorrhoids
|
| Not anyone’s but mine of course
|
| a secret part I now disclose |