A WWII era poem found with my FIL's stuff
Advice To The Confined
While recovering from my operation
I was terribly annoyed,
For the toilet was denied me
And the bed pan was employed.
I much preferred the bath room
But the nurse just shook her head,
And said “you're much too weak I think
For getting out of bed.
My experience with the bed pan
To this day makes me quail,
And I have been prevailed upon
To tell this harrowing tale.
In the small hours of the morning
Before the break of day,
Came a warning that I could not
Ignore, not yet delay.
The nurse brought me the bed pan,
slipped it under my back side,
While chills ran up and down my spine.
As the cold thing touched my hide.
I tipped back on my shoulders
Soon my legs were stiff and numb,
The odds were against me
I'd die before it would come!
In this up and down position
The leverage wasn't there,
But with tremendous effort
I did break a little air.
When at last I got results
I grew faint with dread,
I wondered if I'd hit the pan
Or was it in the bed?
While my heart was weakly fluttering
I felt with cautious care
With a sigh of satisfaction
I discovered nothing there.
But my troubles were not over,
As I was soon to find
For how was I to manage
to wipe the place behind?
The muscles in my back bulged out
as I stood on my head
And made a few wild passes
and nose-dived out of bed.
With patience I continued
Oblivious to my pain,
For modesty prevented me
From leaving any stain.
I had no more than finished
This Herculean feat
When I became aware of something
Sticky on my sheet.
Cold sweat beaded my brow
As I slowly raised my gown,
And there upon the snow-white sheet
was a hideous spot of brown!
So the laws of gravitation
Have proven – sure as fate
That you can't stand upon your head
When you evacuate!
Sick people often grow worse,
And I know the reason why -
The bed pan is the wheel on which
They're tortured til they die.
There is a future for some genius
To invent some kind of diaper,
or back adjusting thunder-mug
With an automatic wiper!
Comments