The Mammogram Poem

The Mammogram Poem
For years and years they told me, be careful of your breasts. Don’t ever squeeze or bruise them. And give them monthly tests. So I heeded all their warnings, and protected them by law. Guarded them very carefully, and I always wore my bra. After 30 years of astute care, My gyno, Dr. Pruitt, Said I should get a Mammogram. “O.K,” I said, “let’s do it.” “Stand up here real close” she said, (She got my boob in line,) “And tell me when it hurts,” she said, “Ah yes! Right there, that’s fine.” She stepped upon a pedal; I could not believe my eyes! A plastic plate came slamming down, my hooter’s in a vice! My skin was stretched and mangled, from underneath my chin. My poor boob was being squashed, To Swedish Pancake thin. Excruciating pain I felt, within its vice-like grip. A prisoner in this vicious thing, my poor defenseless tit! “Take a deep breathe” she said to me, whom does she think she’s kidding? My chest is mashed in her machine, and woozy I am getting. “There, that’s good,” I heard her say, (The room was slowly swaying.) “Now, let’s have a go at the other one.” Have mercy, I was praying. It squeezed me from both up and down; it squeezed me from both sides. I’ll bet SHE’S never had this done, To HER tender little hide. Next time that they make me do this, I will request a blindfold. I have no wish to see again, my knockers getting steamrolled. If I had no problem when I came in, I surely have one now. If there had been a cyst in there, it would have gone “ker-pow!” This machine was created by a man, of this, I have no doubt. I’d like to stick his balls in there, and see how THEY come out.