Thursday, December 31, 2009

East Coast Steve, is at it again. A definite rival in crap poems, that's for sure. And so fitting here in the end-times.

Thar She Blows

What’s that smell coming from my floor.
Oh no, I think it’s from room sixty-four.
I wouldn’t mind it if I float today
To escape the smell of bowel decay.
C-diff, it could be, I don’t know
With blood mixed in, let me tell you bro’
Every time he poops, he fills the bed,
And I swear it smells like something’s dead.
I know nurses are supposed to take this in stride,
But when it smells like something died
My eyes, they water, my head will swirl,
And before too long, I start to hurl.
The pregnant nurses won’t go near
That smelly, leaking, dying rear,
The other two nurses are on the floor,
So Your’s Truly, gets room sixty four.
I have some Febreze, I spray like mad.
I have Glade for every plug, too bad.
I spread the Vicks beneath my nose,
I Scotch-guard everything from neck to toes.
I’m really thinking Flexi-Seal
Two fingers in, it’s no big deal.
Just hope that stool ain’t too thick.
If it is, I know that I’ll be sick.
So lube it up, and in it goes.
Holy Cow cause Thar She Blows.
He farts a big one, the shit, it flies.
I need a shower before it dries.
Why did I think this would cause no harm?
I now have poop all over my arm.
When I said “She Blows”, he really blew.
I’m going to cry, these scrubs were new. 
There’s doo on my glasses, and I swear
There’s something sticky in my hair.
And when my head begins to throb,
I know that I have done my job.

Steve (watch him heave)H.

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