The Unholy Prep

When once I faced that most unholy prep,
A draught of dread that churned my mortal coil,
My courage fled, my dignity misstepped,
As potions vile did set my guts to boil.

No feast nor drink could tempt me from my post,
For chained was I unto porcelain throne,
Where hours crawled and hope became a ghost,
And every trumpet blast was mine alone.

Yet lo, the day when physicians did decree
My nether realms be viewed by lens and light;
They bade me sleep—“’tis but a nap,” said he—
While cameras took their scandalous delight.

Awake, I found with curious relief,
That all was well—save pride, undone by grief.