The Chamber Pot

I think I'll hide this poem here. No one will see it and I won't have to be embarassed.


The Chamber Pot

When I was just a little lad
My mama had me use the chamber pot.
My little point of departure
Got just above the lip
And I had to be put up to it
And balanced,
To undergo the grunting kind
Often euphed as "making mud."
Now mind, chamber pots are called so,
In order that the sensitivities be soothed
My childish innocence must never know
What is hidden in the depths below the word.

Then one day grandma declared
That I should know what happened
To these "products of elimination"
So called by her liberated generation.
Just a pot that's kept in the chamber
You know, In case you got to go.
Go where?
No! Go what!
Make number one or number two.
Oh that
I didn't remember which was which
Grandma took her stand, switch in hand.
It would be good for me to understand,
I had been mollycoddled long enough
For goodness sake
It was time for me
To take the products of elimination out.
I was Moses on the Mount
It was a time of revelation for me.
I was knowing good and evil
Like adam and the tree.

That day I knew what the outhouse was for.
And more, I learned that words
Are meant as often
To conceal as to reveal