The Digit

Today was my day of reckoning
In response to my doctor’s beckoning
For the test that required his nimble digit
To make me squeal like 60’s Gidget

The night before I couldn’t sleep
Thinking about New Zealand sheep
It was there I was told at a church service
That “men are men and sheep are nervous”

I now understand how those lambs felt
The same as I, while undoing my belt
And dropping my trousers to my knees
Awaiting my turn for that internal squeeze

The doctor asked me to lay on my side
The moment is coming I panicked wide eyed
He stretched and tightened his gloves of rubber
The noise of which made me blubber

The gel, he stated, might be cold
As he approached my manifold
Before I knew it, he was in
His finger I nicknamed Errol Flynn

He asked me “how are you doing mate?”
As he probed the surface of my prostate
I thought he was particularly dexterous
And without warning he had made his exodus

In retrospect it wasn’t so bad
I survived what seemed like an Olympiad
My esteem was not at all that scarred
So I promptly handed over my Medicare card

Time has passed and all is fine
But I really should book again online
For my second annual prostate check
For now I’m no longer that nervous wreck

Instead of booking by computer
To the doctor’s office I went by scooter
“I’m here for my annual prostate tweak”
“But Alexander, you were only here last week!”