BUSH

To THINK that I should find my tush
amidst the poem they call a bush.

A poem with branches stiff, unbending...
Poking, prodding my rear-ending.

A bush with thorns that tear and rend
The glutei of my back end.

A bush that makes arising painful,
and makes passers-by disdainful,

Lest, in helping me (to free me)
They, in turn, will look to be me.

Falls can come from those who push,
But pain comes from the g*****n bush!