A poem by Dr Peuss
When my gut feels bleh
my stable off-kilts
like a broken see-saw
that saws unseen guilt.
How does it saw over and over?
knocking down trunks,
kathunk. kathunk.
i do not like this saddened gut.
i do not like it.
ugh. sad. blut.
And so I say: gut, let’s make nice.
I’ll feed you oats. I’ll feed you rice.
You do your job, I’ll do mine —
and by tomorrow? We’ll feel fine.
And so I eat my daily fiber.
Or else my gut is a poop-miser.
Julian Wise 