They call it “Irritabubble Bowel Syndrome”, IBS Where your mind says “NO! ” but your bowels say “YES! ” Or your mind says “YES! ” but your bowels say “NO! ” No matter how desperately you’d really like to go
They can never agree on the most natural of functions Even if you’ve munched on fibre for breakfast, tea and luncheon Gagged on castor oil, retched on Epsom Salts Your bowels unequivocally have come to a grinding halt
And they will lie dormant, in a state of hibernation Waiting patiently until you are in a particular location Where a toilet is at a distance far, far away Then they will come alive without a moment’s delay
They’ve woken up quite grumpy, impatient and demanding The distance of the toilet, of that they have no understanding Evacuate, evacuate, evacuate right now It’s up to you to work out where and how
I could pretend I’m going into that pub to buy a beer Slink slyly past the barman and head straight to the rear Or driving in the car, spot a clump of trees Hide behind them and feel the open breeze
They call it “Irritabubble Bowel Syndrome”, IBS The more you want to go, the bowels want to less The less you want to go, the bowels want to more And that my friends is the spastic colon war!