(I've always thought there was a gap in the market for a fusion of top-rate poetry and a medical procedure.  A travelogue of my biopsy to test for prostate cancer.)

 

They made me wear a nappy

(I wasn’t very happy).

They said I might be needing

A pad to catch the bleeding

Of later crimson stainers

Which seeped out from my anus

Which had become right sloppy

From my prostate biopsy.

 

The op was quick and simple

Like squeezing a ripe pimple.

The nurse who was a flirter

Took a butcher’s at my blurter;

She lubed me up so greasy

That her finger slipped in easy,

Such lubricant achieving

Insertion of a sleeve in;

Followed down its middle

By a fucking 6” needle;

A little more than tickly

That I scarcely felt it prick me;

So thus was proved pathetic

My fear of anaesthetic.

 

She then took prostate samples

“A dozen should be ample”;

The hollow needle put in

Took a core and not a cutting;

This made intrusion neater,

Each plug a centimetre;

I asked her at this juncture

“What with all these punctures

For fear of seeming geeky

Will it now be leaky?”

I heard behind my botty

She snorted good and snotty.

But said a little cheeky

“At worst, your bottom’s  squeaky”.

 

Now I await advising

Results of analysing.

 

They made me wear a nappy

(I wasn’t very happy).

 

Postscript

Now I’ve bleeding in my urine

And in my shit and semen;

I think it’s time I make a

Date with the undertaker.