Man and the gosh-darned pan

When I had my operation, I displayed a lot of guts; I could takeit, smile and like it, but the bed pan drove me nuts. When nature called, I’d call the nurse; and when I called she ranand soon I’d have my carcass, parked upon that gosh-darned pan. I’d slide back on my shoulders, but the leverage wasn’t there,and instead of something doing, I’d shoot a flock of air. And when at last I’d get results, I’d feel around my seat, to seeif I had missed the pan and piled it on the sheet. There was cold sweat on my forehead, when I’d feel with cautiouscare, and with sighs of satisfaction, find not a thing was there. But now a new contortion, would leave me weak and pale; I’d haveto work and twist and squirm to wipe my poor sore tail. I’d raise my sitter, high mid-air, this closed the gaping span;my shaky hand would slip, and then I’d grab that gosh-darn pan. The muscles of my neck would bulge as I stood upon my head, I’dmake a few wild passes and fall weakly back in bed. And when I’d ring, the nurse came in and carried off the pan; I’dwonder why, on such a job, they didn’t send a man. Then finally, I’d settle down, that movement was a treat;but, wait a minute! What’s so warm and wet upon the sheet? With a gasp of apprehension, I’d slowly raise my gown, and therebeneath my sitter, would be a blotch of brown. And so, as operations go, I’m a burly, big, he-man;but gosh! It simply burns me up, when I miss that gosh-darned pan!

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