I think my inspooration is drained.
Bowels feel as if they’re sprained.
I can’t come up with a single rhyme…
To commit to paper the brown crime.
And my toilet is free from all stains.

Poohaps my poor colon is twisted.
Or my butthole has been fisted…
By writer’s block with pen in hand.
Or cork crammed up my rear gland.
I can’t deliver a literary biscuit.

Why this constipation of the mind?
I just need release from my behind.
I don’t need to go crazy or dung-ho.
Just need the brown ink to flow.
Maybe it’s time my rectum resigned?