GRAPES OF WRATH

I have a friend who never smiles.
His name is Loathsome Lloyd.
He suffers from his Massive Piles -
The dreaded Hemorrhoid.

The Grapes that grow inside his butt
Can drive him quite insane.
It’s quite enough to make him nuts
The itching and the pain.

His scratching brings him no relief:
His agony, it lingers.
It steals upon him like a thief,
And gives him stinky fingers.

He’d sell his soul to find a cure,
A balm to soothe his anus.
An anesthetic, sweet and pure,
To take away his painus.

But meanwhile, Lloyd lives with his Piles.
They’re “Grapes of Wrath,” indeed.
You know now why he never smiles
And scratches ’til he bleeds.