In the Bowels of the Body
I Reside and Work
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The Colon
I have not captured the imagination of poets, artists, and historians.
Unlike my brothers and sisters the heart, liver, and the brain,
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Shakespeare and the Organs Number of times the organs are mentioned in Shakespeare’s workRhymeZone.com
I am usually a subject that is avoided in cultured circles,
And commonly the brunt of coarse jocularity in casual circles.
My contents are usually used as expletives of disgust and disagreement,
While my tail end is used in reference to the last and the least.
Let me tell you my story ?..
I am the colon ? they also call me the large bowel.
Some call me the ?large howl? because of the noises that I make.
I do make noises ?most of the time I sing a droning song while I go about my work,
Almost like a bass or double bass.
Sometimes I have to let off steam and then the wind instruments take charge,
With sounds that range from a piercing bleat to the beautiful alto furtive blurt.
When my contents are fluid I can tinkle along like a triangle in a percussion band.
Borborygmi they are called ?quite a fancy name for a rather primitive sound.
Talking about music, I was surprised to read that Mozart took an interest in me.
His scatological letters are infamous, though admittedly his music is genius.
I am somewhat proud of his obsession for me.
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Mozart and ScatologyWiki
Difiicile Lectu
Difficile Lectu Discussion
U Tube
So much for what people think or have thought.
Let me give you my perspective.
Ashley Davidoff MD
I am unique!
No other structure in the body comes close.
With my taenia
The three beautiful, graceful and gracile taenia that run along the entire length of my body.
Ashley Davidoff MD
I really like these sleek muscles
So symmetrically positioned around my circumference.
They are always a tad tight, giving me my voluptuous bulges ? the haustra.
I like those too.
They give me haughtiness and sometimes a naughtiness –
Those hoighty-toighty, naughty voluptuous haustra.
On another note!!!!
What about the ugly beads of fatty tissue that adorn my sides
They are are another story!
I hate them! I don?t understand what function they play ?
?and here it comes again: their fancy shmancy name:
?appendices epiploica.?
What in heaven?s name was God thinking when he put those fatty ?things!? on my waist?
I detest them! Do you hear me? Detest!
They may have been the fashion in the time of Adam and Eve,
But God, please get with the times ? they are way out of fashion.
Now all riled up
I continue my rant and rave.
Chyme they call it!
Chyme my ass! (Oops, I should not have said that.)
They give it a fancy Latin name to make you think it is elegant.
What would you feel like if you were dealt the grime and sludge that I am dealt?
It is pure muck with all the good things removed ? dirty slimy muck!
And this is only the beginning.
Wait for the obnoxious gas that those bacteria fellows produce.
It presses on my sides and makes the jowls of my bowels howl.
Talk about noxious and obnoxious ?
We should bring OSHA down here.
I feel a little better now that I have let off some steam,
So I resign myself to my lot in life and I deal with it and in it.
My cryptic workers ?
God bless mein lieber kinder,
The crypts of Lieberkuhn
They take that stuff into their crypts and work away at it for hours and sometimes days.
And voila ? with bubble, bubble, toil and trouble,
A well molded product of dehydrated debris
Mixed with a tincture of mucus, a bead of sweat, and fermented gas for the rise,
To which I add a drop of color with my stercobilin
To form beautiful compacted nuggets called scybalae.
Getting rid of the product and passing it on into the free world is yet another story.
Some wondrous interactions are going on between me and my muscles (and you and your muscles, and your marvelous mind and body).
To cut a long story short, the coordination is quite something until we finally get the job done.
I heave a sigh of relief when I see the fruit of my labor out of the door.
In the end I am very happy to be part of your body,
To do my little thing,, and earn my keep.
So that you can experience another wondrous day, enjoy another meal,
And live to tell another tail ?
end story.
In the Bowels of the Body I Reside and Work
A shorter version
I toil and work in the pits of the human sewerage line.
The borborygmi kill my ears,
And the carbon dioxide puts pressure on my jowls,
While hydrogen sulfide does a job on my nose.
Despite all this I move on, toiling day and night
With the help of mein lieber kinder ? the Crypts of Lieberkuhn,
My graceful and gracile taenia coli,
Together with my rounded rotund muscles
And my haughty naughty voluptuous haustra
(Adorned with my flippity floppity fat beads)
I squash and I squeeze the chyme into scybalae
To which I add a drop of color of stercobilin.
And finally, with your help,
We rid your body of waste
And live to tell another tail ? end story.
Chat GPT
In the Bowels of the Body
I reside and toil, unseen yet essential.
The Colon Speaks
I have not captured the imagination of poets,
Nor the reverence of artists, scientists, or historians.
Unlike my celebrated siblings?the heart, the liver, the brain?
I live in the shadows of their grandeur.
Even Shakespeare left me untouched,
Though he spared thought for nearly every organ.
I am ignored in cultured conversations,
Yet find myself mocked in the crude jokes of casual circles.
My contents are expletives of disgust,
My tail end the metaphor for the last, the least.
But allow me, please, to tell my story.
I am the colon?some call me the large bowel.
Others, with jest, dub me the “large howl”
For the noises I make in the quiet depths of your being.
A Symphony Within
Yes, I make noises?
A droning bass line accompanies my work,
Sometimes interrupted by a wind instrument?s solo:
A piercing bleat, an alto blurt, or a furtive whisper.
When my contents are fluid, I tinkle,
Like a delicate triangle in a percussion band.
Borborygmi?such a fancy name for a simple sound.
Mozart himself was amused by my humble song;
Even genius cannot resist the pull of the absurd.
My Anatomy: Grace and Grotesque
My structure is unique:
Three elegant taenia coli trace my length,
Tight and sleek, framing my rounded haustra?
Voluptuous bulges that give me character.
Oh, those haustra!
Sometimes haughty, sometimes naughty,
Always delightfully rotund.
But then there are the appendices epiploicae?
Those flippity, floppity beads of fat.
What purpose they serve, I?ll never know.
Did God add them in jest,
Or were they once fashionable, like Adam?s fig leaf?
The Work I Do
The chyme I receive is no prize.
Stripped of its goodness, it?s muck?grimy and slimy.
Yet, my cryptic workers?the Crypts of Lieberkühn?
Toil endlessly in their tiny alcoves.
Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble?
They craft dehydrated debris into sculpted nuggets,
Mixing mucus, sweat, and gas,
Adding stercobilin for that earthy hue.
Behold: scybalae?my masterpiece.
The Final Act
With precision and teamwork,
My taenia coli, haustra, and your muscles unite.
Together, we rid your body of waste,
Completing a symphony of elimination.
A Reflection
Though my work is unglamorous,
I am proud to be part of your being.
I retrieve water, I earn my keep,
So you can savor another meal,
And live to tell another tail?end story.
The Colon?s Song (A Shorter Ode)
In the depths of the body, I labor unseen,
A humble worker of the human sewer line.
Borborygmi fill my ears,
While gas presses on my walls.
Still, I toil.
With my sleek taenia coli
And voluptuous haustra,
I sculpt chyme into scybalae,
Adding a touch of stercobilin for color.
At last, with your help,
We release the waste,
Another day, another meal,
Another tail?end tale.
Incorporate Mikes Comments
Comment from an admiresr to the Poem
a work of such importance and magnitude, it deserves the designation of “megacolon”. The transit time was just right, and at no point did I meet any obstruction or torsion to keep me from peristalsing towards its thrilling climax, a satisfying splash of a denouement! Served up at a GI conference or a medical school lecture, perhaps accompanied by some beer and bean dip, I have no doubt it will leave a mark
Chat GPT to Mike Millers comments
In the Bowels of the Body
I reside and toil, unseen yet essential.
The Colon Speaks
I have not captured the imagination of poets,
Nor the reverence of artists, scientists, or historians.
Unlike my celebrated siblings?the heart, the liver, the brain?
I live in the shadows of their grandeur.
Even Shakespeare left me untouched,
Though he spared thought for nearly every organ.
I am ignored in cultured conversations,
Yet find myself mocked in the crude jokes of casual circles.
My contents are expletives of disgust,
My tail end the metaphor for the last, the least.
But allow me, please, to tell my story.
I am the colon?some call me the large bowel.
Others, with jest, dub me the “large howl”
For the noises I make in the quiet depths of your being.
A Symphony Within
Yes, I make noises?
A droning bass line accompanies my work,
Sometimes interrupted by a wind instrument?s solo:
A piercing bleat, an alto blurt, or a furtive whisper.
When my contents are fluid, I tinkle,
Like a delicate triangle in a percussion band.
Borborygmi?such a fancy name for a simple sound.
Mozart himself was amused by my humble song;
Even genius cannot resist the pull of the absurd.
But you, dear reader, have graced me with a rare honor.
Your admiration, unfiltered and uncensored,
Grants me the title of “megacolon”?a designation I wear with pride!
For this work of magnitude and import,
I aim to peristalse not just toward digestion,
But toward the grandest appreciation of my toil.
My Anatomy: Grace and Grotesque
My structure is unique:
Three elegant taenia coli trace my length,
Tight and sleek, framing my rounded haustra?
Voluptuous bulges that give me character.
Oh, those haustra!
Sometimes haughty, sometimes naughty,
Always delightfully rotund.
But then there are the appendices epiploicae?
Those flippity, floppity beads of fat.
What purpose they serve, I?ll never know.
Did God add them in jest,
Or were they once fashionable, like Adam?s fig leaf?
The Work I Do
The chyme I receive is no prize.
Stripped of its goodness, it?s muck?grimy and slimy.
Yet, my cryptic workers?the Crypts of Lieberkühn?
Toil endlessly in their tiny alcoves.
Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble?
They craft dehydrated debris into sculpted nuggets,
Mixing mucus, sweat, and gas,
Adding stercobilin for that earthy hue.
Behold: scybalae?my masterpiece.
The Final Act
With precision and teamwork,
My taenia coli, haustra, and your muscles unite.
Together, we rid your body of waste,
Completing a symphony of elimination.
Here, you admire my climactic performance,
A journey unmarred by obstruction or torsion,
A thrilling transit to the splash of a denouement.
A masterpiece fit not just for life?s daily rhythms,
But for the laughter of a GI conference,
Served alongside beer and bean dip.
A Reflection
Though my work is unglamorous,
I am proud to be part of your being.
I retrieve water, I earn my keep,
So you can savor another meal,
And live to tell another tail?end story.
Thank you, dear admirer,
For leaving your mark as surely as I leave mine.