One would think I’m a colon or that it is me
As I move about backed up with scowl on the brain.
If I find myself trapped near the end of my gut,
Seems my bowel is an asshole who’s tired of the rut
That we both made together while waxing insane.
My behavior’s atrocious, as I can well see.

I gave up on the action paths. None will work well.
I’ve popped shitters like Skittles and chased them with milk
Of magnesia. I’ve tried tons of ex-lax and more.
I’m so hell bent on crapping, I’ve got my own store.
I would like stuff to flow softly through me like silk.
But it seems that my blasted pipes are shot to hell.

On the other hand, though, that may not be quite so.
I create my reality whether I’m trapped
In a body that feels like it’s felt its last days
Or in one that feels wholesome in all natural ways,
When I clean my vibration, that bowel will be zapped
With a blast of pure energy. This I well know.