Poem about Mammograms

This is why we don’t have Mamograms – girls, get the punchline!

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 Doctor found a lump.
She ordered up a mammogram,
To look inside that bump.

“Stand up very close,” she said,
As she got my boob in line.
“And, tell me when it hurts,” she said.
“Ah yes! There, that’s fine.”

She stepped upon a peddle.
I could not believe my eyes!
A plastic plate pressed down and down,
My boob was in a vice!

My skin was stretched and stretched,
From way up under my chin.
My poor boob was being squashed,
To Swedish pancake thin.

Excruciating pain I felt,
Within it’s vice-like grip.
A prisoner in this vicious thing,
My poor defenseless tits!

“Take a deep breath,” she said to me,
Who does she think she’s kidding?
My chest is mashed in her machine,
And woozy I am getting.

“There, that was good,” I heard her say,
As the room was slowly swaying.
“Now let’s have a go at the other one.”
“Lord have mercy,” I was praying.

It squeezed me from up and down,
It squeezed me from both sides,
I’ll bet she’s never had this done,
Not to her tender little hide!

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 popped, Ker-pow!

This machine was designed by man,
Of this I have no doubt,
I’d like to stick his balls in there.
And see how they come out!