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!
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