There once was a Vicar named Groon
he was raised with a true silver spoon.
And at bedtime he'd take
for his haemorrhoids' sake
a large dish of a stew made from prune.
When the sun said 'good night' to the moon
and arranged itself like a balloon
he would run to the loo
without further ado
and discharged juice of prune very soon.
Herbert Nehrlich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-vicar-s-laxative/
