Alone he wonders, heart pounds and mind races
Over mirror he squats, confused he now faces
The prospect of cancer, or maybe a pimple
Or possibly worse or is it not simple
Will she walk in as reflection he studies
His manhood it dangles, and he squints and he worries
He reaches, contorted, there’s fire in his knees
Twixt fingers he holds it and starts then to squeeze
His back passage is clenched, mirror full of his worry
Which he straddles on haunches, heart beats in a hurry
Then finds peace in a moment and relieved, calmly smiles
Pulls up his pants and declares, “It’s not cancer, just piles!”
Afterwards 