THE CHUCK N' CHANCER POEMS
A Sample of my Collection of 42 Poems:
One Each Day
For A Six Week Cancer Treatment
© Copyright 2016 Sean Presley - All Rights Reserved
Embedded Files
DO YOU HAVE FK'N CANCER? MY WORDS ARE FOR YOU. I'M CHUCK N' CHANCER, I WAS FK'D TOO.
These pages of Chuck’n Chancer story rhymes are full of my real and personal cancer stories, some shots of advice, a poke of opinions, attempts at humor and cleverness, and my open souled commiseration. My name is Sean Presley. In April of 2008, I had a cancerous colorectal tumor removed, along with thirteen inches of my colon and eight inches of rectum. The pre surgery chemotherapy and radiation treatments, eighteen days in the hospital, six weeks of an ileostomy bag, four months of post treatment chemo, a few complications, and all the rigmarole involved with surviving my eighteen month ordeal; provided me some hands-on insight into what having cancer is all about. I’m happy and eager to share my experiences, hoping anything I say may help my fellow cancer victims through their trying times.Cancer is an intensely serious disease and topic. I say it’s too serious, so I attempt to lighten the mood during a dark time, with some word play and rhymes that are from my heart and full of cancer truths, while still being chuck full of serious silliness and fun imagery. I offer my cancer-patient centric words with the intention and hope that I can commiserate with, laugh and cry with, enlighten, advise, and console my fellow victims; through the voice of my survival spawned alter ego, Chuck’n Chancer.Chuck wants to take you for a ride; from where he’s been, to where he is; and from where you are, to where you will be. His goal is to get you there with a better understanding, a better attitude, some sick laughs, and a sad season spawned happy epiphany or two. He has a strong sense of cancer, a yet to be widely judged sense of humor, and a questionable sense of political correctness. I’m Sean and Chuck, if you have cancer, let me be your good luck, I don’t have all the answers, but I’ll share with you how I handled the way it sucks.
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO CANCER VICTIMS EVERYWHERE
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO CANCER VICTIMS EVERYWHERE
AND TO THOSE WHO HELP US FEEL BETTER
AND TO THOSE WHO HELP US FEEL BETTER
Testimonials
“And in my hour of darkness, there is still a light that shines on me.” Sean’s words echo this beautiful anthem. In the midst of my despair, his poems gave me strength I didn’t know I had. After my diagnosis, I put on a good act…
“She’s so strong…she’s a survivor!” Friends and family believed in me, but strangely, I couldn’t believe. I just didn’t care. But then, Sean and “Chuck” entered my life. He lifted me higher. He is a brother who knows the meaning of what it is to no longer have an “open ended” life.
We live on the other side. There is nothing as intense as cancer. We want to breathe again, to be naïve again…to be as we were. Sean’s poetry is a guide that can help us all navigate this new landscape. His brilliant insight and humorous irony ignite a flame of hope, which cannot be diminished. Finally, it is the LOVE he brings which raises us up and allows us to greet the day with joy. Thank you, Sean. We need you!
Jane DiMuro-Asghari Friend
“She’s so strong…she’s a survivor!” Friends and family believed in me, but strangely, I couldn’t believe. I just didn’t care. But then, Sean and “Chuck” entered my life. He lifted me higher. He is a brother who knows the meaning of what it is to no longer have an “open ended” life.
We live on the other side. There is nothing as intense as cancer. We want to breathe again, to be naïve again…to be as we were. Sean’s poetry is a guide that can help us all navigate this new landscape. His brilliant insight and humorous irony ignite a flame of hope, which cannot be diminished. Finally, it is the LOVE he brings which raises us up and allows us to greet the day with joy. Thank you, Sean. We need you!
Jane DiMuro-Asghari Friend
Cancer is the most devastating of all the diseases, hence, the big C. My son Sean has provided us with a most touching, heartfelt, bitterly human and often humorous look at this illness.
I, too, have had cancer. Other friends and family have succumbed to it, and yet many have survived. I applaud Sean for letting us into his private and honest experience with cancer. To write about his life during this time, and then to make it rhyme, is truly remarkable.
We hope you will laugh, cry and nod in understanding, yet benefit in some way from this book. Read on!
Susan Presley-Papapetru - Mother
I, too, have had cancer. Other friends and family have succumbed to it, and yet many have survived. I applaud Sean for letting us into his private and honest experience with cancer. To write about his life during this time, and then to make it rhyme, is truly remarkable.
We hope you will laugh, cry and nod in understanding, yet benefit in some way from this book. Read on!
Susan Presley-Papapetru - Mother
I’m a victim of prostate cancer, so a friend encouraged me to read Chuck’n Chancer’s cool rhymes concerning cancer. I was skeptical, but his unique poems were raw and powerful, offering real stories full of laughs and cries that related well to my treatments and struggles. I believe every adult would benefit from the insight that Sean was brave and talented enough to share with us, through the entertaining voice of Chuck’n Chancer.
Billy S. - Reader
Chuck’n Chancer #1:“I’M CHUCK’N CHANCER”
First of all, I'm very sorry that you're reading this, I'm sorry that I'm on your reading list, Hi, I'm Chuck’n Chancer, that's right; I too have fk’n cancer,
Well, I should say that I did, But it's hard to put a lid, On the fact that since I had it, it’s always been on my back, Like cancer is the rabbit, lurking at the bottom of an evil hat, But who’s the magician? We’ll explore that and more, As I attempt to enlist your mind in my twisted rhymes designed to implore All of my fellow cancer peeps, to stay light as we fight the plight of C’s storm,
Before during and after the big C, life goes on and it's a beautiful thing, It’s always good to stop and smell the rose and hark to hear the children sing, I write these rhymes for you my mates, Through the pain and suffering and canceled dates, Through the cries and polite lies: “Hey, your bald head looks great”, Through your loved one’s sighs: “You didn't eat your whole plate”,
For you, these poems, to let you know you're not alone, For me, these poems; my attempt to help you without leaving my home, My cancer surgeries were colon, so I choose not to over roam, What I’ll give with this, are tongue twists and advice to help fight your disease, I’ll hold your clenched fists and commiserate; and try to pry some laughs free, I’ll give you the C truth that was and is and will be, My truth is all you'll get from me,
On that note, my real name is not Chuck’n Chancer, But it rhymes so nicely, with fk’n cancer :), So my truth does come with artistic license and such, But this all comes from my heart, I promise you that much, I’ll fight cancer with you, by sharing how I was thoroughly touched,
This is about us, and cancer, About looking for something fun, As we wade through unpleasant questions and answers. I hope you heal in style, with the best of healing luck, Fight back with a smile; cancer can still be fun while its fk’d, Turn the page, heal the rage, and hold back the curtains on the stage with me, I'm semi-clearly nearly all the “must read if you have cancer” rage, you’ll see.
First of all, I'm very sorry that you're reading this, I'm sorry that I'm on your reading list, Hi, I'm Chuck’n Chancer, that's right; I too have fk’n cancer,
Well, I should say that I did, But it's hard to put a lid, On the fact that since I had it, it’s always been on my back, Like cancer is the rabbit, lurking at the bottom of an evil hat, But who’s the magician? We’ll explore that and more, As I attempt to enlist your mind in my twisted rhymes designed to implore All of my fellow cancer peeps, to stay light as we fight the plight of C’s storm,
Before during and after the big C, life goes on and it's a beautiful thing, It’s always good to stop and smell the rose and hark to hear the children sing, I write these rhymes for you my mates, Through the pain and suffering and canceled dates, Through the cries and polite lies: “Hey, your bald head looks great”, Through your loved one’s sighs: “You didn't eat your whole plate”,
For you, these poems, to let you know you're not alone, For me, these poems; my attempt to help you without leaving my home, My cancer surgeries were colon, so I choose not to over roam, What I’ll give with this, are tongue twists and advice to help fight your disease, I’ll hold your clenched fists and commiserate; and try to pry some laughs free, I’ll give you the C truth that was and is and will be, My truth is all you'll get from me,
On that note, my real name is not Chuck’n Chancer, But it rhymes so nicely, with fk’n cancer :), So my truth does come with artistic license and such, But this all comes from my heart, I promise you that much, I’ll fight cancer with you, by sharing how I was thoroughly touched,
This is about us, and cancer, About looking for something fun, As we wade through unpleasant questions and answers. I hope you heal in style, with the best of healing luck, Fight back with a smile; cancer can still be fun while its fk’d, Turn the page, heal the rage, and hold back the curtains on the stage with me, I'm semi-clearly nearly all the “must read if you have cancer” rage, you’ll see.
Chuck’n Chancer #2:“CANCER’S NO JOKE, AND LAUGHTER IS ITS ENEMY”
Oh sweet, you made it to my second page, Step number two, towards tapping into and tapping out your cancer rage, If you have cancer I want my poems to be your friend, I admit it, When they say “Who made that victim nod and laugh?” I wanna say, “I did it!”
What's that you say? I have not yet one laugh line spoke! Hmm, well, how about this, off the top of my assumingly bald head, joke:
“A cancer victim and an alcoholic walk into a bar, Which one has a disease?”
Ha-ha! I joke with no punch line; did you laugh, or say “geez”? My hunch is that punch line, might stir some controversies,
So I'll swallow it for now, and declare: it's time to wallow it, Wallow what? Wallow in self-pity of course, like victims are supposed to and shit, We’re victims, so let’s feel sorry for ourselves like most do, Nah, that’s a bad idea, instead let's do a toast to… Um... let's toast to something dumb and fun, I know: “Here's to cancer, enemy number one, And here's to you and me, we'll kill it like we’re James Bond, Shaken yes, but unstirred, and flanked by a nice brunette and a blonde”,
So what if our Bond girls, or boys, are actually both nurses, Moneypenny knows, there are far worse curses, Like the daily search for bombs, when they find pons in her purses, Or being deprived of the alleged healing vibe in my slightly contrived cancer verses,
You and Chuck, we have cancer, what the fuck? Really? Cancer? That's our bad cell luck? Oh shit and oh well, I share with you this earthly patch of hell, While trying hard not to negatively dwell, Holy moly, what on earth is that uncalled for smell? Sniff, oh, I know, that smell is the cancer in our kitchen, Let’s fight the stench with good humor and some raging fun, And some cagey home cooked bitchin’,
Keep your arms and legs within the vehicle please, The enjoy/ability of this ride will depend on how you handle it, see, Doors closed, next stop, Adver City, The length of the ride is up to you; you conduct this creation, You’re free to hop off, and join the happier victim’s congregation, Just pull the cord; the bell will turn you towards the majesty of Imagi Nation.
Oh sweet, you made it to my second page, Step number two, towards tapping into and tapping out your cancer rage, If you have cancer I want my poems to be your friend, I admit it, When they say “Who made that victim nod and laugh?” I wanna say, “I did it!”
What's that you say? I have not yet one laugh line spoke! Hmm, well, how about this, off the top of my assumingly bald head, joke:
“A cancer victim and an alcoholic walk into a bar, Which one has a disease?”
Ha-ha! I joke with no punch line; did you laugh, or say “geez”? My hunch is that punch line, might stir some controversies,
So I'll swallow it for now, and declare: it's time to wallow it, Wallow what? Wallow in self-pity of course, like victims are supposed to and shit, We’re victims, so let’s feel sorry for ourselves like most do, Nah, that’s a bad idea, instead let's do a toast to… Um... let's toast to something dumb and fun, I know: “Here's to cancer, enemy number one, And here's to you and me, we'll kill it like we’re James Bond, Shaken yes, but unstirred, and flanked by a nice brunette and a blonde”,
So what if our Bond girls, or boys, are actually both nurses, Moneypenny knows, there are far worse curses, Like the daily search for bombs, when they find pons in her purses, Or being deprived of the alleged healing vibe in my slightly contrived cancer verses,
You and Chuck, we have cancer, what the fuck? Really? Cancer? That's our bad cell luck? Oh shit and oh well, I share with you this earthly patch of hell, While trying hard not to negatively dwell, Holy moly, what on earth is that uncalled for smell? Sniff, oh, I know, that smell is the cancer in our kitchen, Let’s fight the stench with good humor and some raging fun, And some cagey home cooked bitchin’,
Keep your arms and legs within the vehicle please, The enjoy/ability of this ride will depend on how you handle it, see, Doors closed, next stop, Adver City, The length of the ride is up to you; you conduct this creation, You’re free to hop off, and join the happier victim’s congregation, Just pull the cord; the bell will turn you towards the majesty of Imagi Nation.
Chuck’n Chancer #3:“FORTY TWO PAGES LINE CANCER’S CAGES”
How many words can a cancer fk’d Chuck throw at you each verse? I.D.K., but I think 42 pages full, is just right for you C ma’ams and sirs, That’s one page for each day of a six-week treatment stanza, I’d bet my words aren’t brilliant, but I bet I beat a few old scripts from Bonanza,
A page a day keeps the C demons at bay, I like to say, Get out of your head, and into Chuck’s, for some ill, ill word play, Get out of your mind with me; we’ll share temporary insanity, During this loss of control of our good health humanity,
How much wood does a good Chuck duck, when cancer trees swing in? I. D. K., I tried to duck a tumor’s spin, but my butt was low and the thing reamed in, Ouch! Ha-ha, actually, the tumor didn’t hurt that much, But during the radiation weeks; ouch, O. M. G., M. F., *#!^&!, and such and such, Of course, that’s dinner table talk, ha-ha, well maybe not, Maybe tales of shell-less snails inside tails, don’t help food hit the spot,
O. K., I’ll clean it up and tighten the nuts; but first, another touch on butts, Raise your hands victim Dan’s and Stan’s, if you’ve been fingered by another man, Ha-ha, ouch, ouch, those are unpleasant days full of unpleasant hands, Doctor table, fetal position, lube, finger probe, tumor feel, That’s the game where your ego squeals; that card was played plenty in my bad deal, And so it was, and so it was, and so fk’n what? Shit happens, right? Ha-ha, that there was accidental dark humor of the butt, But, back to so fk’n what; an occasional finger to save our lives, doesn’t make us man sluts.
I don’t mean to leave you ladies out, But it’s best to stay out of your butts, no doubt.
And, moving on, and up, to the heart of the matter, Ya gotta have heart, and put your game-face on, to climb off of cancer’s ladder, At least, that’s what worked for me, But we’re all unique, so duck cancer’s wrath however you please,
This has been one page of 42, where I hope you’ve shared in the rage, Where you share my need to gobble, and disengage from being a turkey caged, Thanksgiving draws near; that thought draws my lip corners towards my ears, I’ll be thankful to be boatin’ gravy, and Chuck chuggin’ tall chilled beers, I’ll be thankin’ all who helped me in these six post cancer years, And I hope the day that you look back, is drawing ever near.
How many words can a cancer fk’d Chuck throw at you each verse? I.D.K., but I think 42 pages full, is just right for you C ma’ams and sirs, That’s one page for each day of a six-week treatment stanza, I’d bet my words aren’t brilliant, but I bet I beat a few old scripts from Bonanza,
A page a day keeps the C demons at bay, I like to say, Get out of your head, and into Chuck’s, for some ill, ill word play, Get out of your mind with me; we’ll share temporary insanity, During this loss of control of our good health humanity,
How much wood does a good Chuck duck, when cancer trees swing in? I. D. K., I tried to duck a tumor’s spin, but my butt was low and the thing reamed in, Ouch! Ha-ha, actually, the tumor didn’t hurt that much, But during the radiation weeks; ouch, O. M. G., M. F., *#!^&!, and such and such, Of course, that’s dinner table talk, ha-ha, well maybe not, Maybe tales of shell-less snails inside tails, don’t help food hit the spot,
O. K., I’ll clean it up and tighten the nuts; but first, another touch on butts, Raise your hands victim Dan’s and Stan’s, if you’ve been fingered by another man, Ha-ha, ouch, ouch, those are unpleasant days full of unpleasant hands, Doctor table, fetal position, lube, finger probe, tumor feel, That’s the game where your ego squeals; that card was played plenty in my bad deal, And so it was, and so it was, and so fk’n what? Shit happens, right? Ha-ha, that there was accidental dark humor of the butt, But, back to so fk’n what; an occasional finger to save our lives, doesn’t make us man sluts.
I don’t mean to leave you ladies out, But it’s best to stay out of your butts, no doubt.
And, moving on, and up, to the heart of the matter, Ya gotta have heart, and put your game-face on, to climb off of cancer’s ladder, At least, that’s what worked for me, But we’re all unique, so duck cancer’s wrath however you please,
This has been one page of 42, where I hope you’ve shared in the rage, Where you share my need to gobble, and disengage from being a turkey caged, Thanksgiving draws near; that thought draws my lip corners towards my ears, I’ll be thankful to be boatin’ gravy, and Chuck chuggin’ tall chilled beers, I’ll be thankin’ all who helped me in these six post cancer years, And I hope the day that you look back, is drawing ever near.
Chuck’n Chancer #4:“BE IN IT TO WIN IT”
Can we talk about the cancer game for a minute? It can take you down, spin you 'round, it's crazy when you're in it. It'll make you an insane clown, if you choose your own tail to pin it, Like all games, if you're going to do well, you gotta be in it to win it!
Insert motivational speech here - I'm your mother, I'm MLK, and I'm Knute Rockne screaming in your ear, I'd fill in the words, maybe a few dramatic verbs, But you know, like I know, that the fighting through is up to you. I offer no flamboyant speech, or magical brews, The key to this game, like so many games, is: head steady and follow through, Always be ready and do what you gotta do,
The game ain't fun, but it must be won; it’s serious! So what do we have to do? What the doctors say to do, period. Doctors, nurses, more nurses, more doctors, To trust or not to trust, that’s a big question; where's my rocker? Where's my drink? I need time to think, To ensure good health, I’ll make sure that Ensure is my drink, I promise not to add a shot this time, wink-wink,
The cancer game is not fun, even winning, The tubes, the scars, the barfs, the super-model thinning, Let's face it; cancer kicked down our immune system's door, But our hard to fathom brains, can do wonders to level our listing floors, To level the playing field of our game and open new corridors, I took pen to paper, to fight through the battles of my cancer war,
What will you do to win your battle? I sit and wonder with the other retired vets, You’re stronger than you’d predict once the firing starts; so do not against you bet, One day at a time, and all that cliché crap, it all applies here appropriately, So go ahead and embrace all those dopey quotes you see, You have nothing to fear, but fear its self! Give 110%! It’s game time! Game on! Are you ready for some treatments! Or whatever! Oops, I’ll stop yelling and take a seat, friends, I’ll sit back a sec and root you on, cheering you up from the deep end.
Can we talk about the cancer game for a minute? It can take you down, spin you 'round, it's crazy when you're in it. It'll make you an insane clown, if you choose your own tail to pin it, Like all games, if you're going to do well, you gotta be in it to win it!
Insert motivational speech here - I'm your mother, I'm MLK, and I'm Knute Rockne screaming in your ear, I'd fill in the words, maybe a few dramatic verbs, But you know, like I know, that the fighting through is up to you. I offer no flamboyant speech, or magical brews, The key to this game, like so many games, is: head steady and follow through, Always be ready and do what you gotta do,
The game ain't fun, but it must be won; it’s serious! So what do we have to do? What the doctors say to do, period. Doctors, nurses, more nurses, more doctors, To trust or not to trust, that’s a big question; where's my rocker? Where's my drink? I need time to think, To ensure good health, I’ll make sure that Ensure is my drink, I promise not to add a shot this time, wink-wink,
The cancer game is not fun, even winning, The tubes, the scars, the barfs, the super-model thinning, Let's face it; cancer kicked down our immune system's door, But our hard to fathom brains, can do wonders to level our listing floors, To level the playing field of our game and open new corridors, I took pen to paper, to fight through the battles of my cancer war,
What will you do to win your battle? I sit and wonder with the other retired vets, You’re stronger than you’d predict once the firing starts; so do not against you bet, One day at a time, and all that cliché crap, it all applies here appropriately, So go ahead and embrace all those dopey quotes you see, You have nothing to fear, but fear its self! Give 110%! It’s game time! Game on! Are you ready for some treatments! Or whatever! Oops, I’ll stop yelling and take a seat, friends, I’ll sit back a sec and root you on, cheering you up from the deep end.
Chuck’n Chancer #5:“BIG QUESTIONS, BIG ANSWERS”
Every day we make decisions and weigh the risk reward, Some are cut-and-dried, while some are double-edged swords, But when it comes to cancer treatment pros and cons, The weighing is heavy, like negotiating with mafia dons,
The doctors make you offers you can’t refuse, Your cancer might kill you, the chemo might too; which do you choose? The radiation will damage you from ear to rear, But your cancer may kill you, choose either and your end may be near,
Spoiler alert! The doctors don’t offer crystal balls, So your decisions will require you to be a know it all, Are you feeling that pressure? I sure did. The questions seemed, “advanced adult”; I felt like a confused little kid,
I educated myself to the best of my normally lazy abilities, Googling what I could, as nervous sweat soaked through my hillbilly tees, I made my decisions, partially informed, with fingers and prayers crossed, Through good doctoring or good luck, I bought more time from the mafia boss,
Good luck be with you, if you’re still weighing cons and pros, Learn what you can, decide and trust your plan, lord only knows how it goes, Well, the doctors know too, I trusted they did, and they do – now here I go,
Here I go, again, breaking into a happily angry survivor song, Why? Because I can’t believe that I’ve, after cancer, lived this long, Drop hard decisions for a minute and sing along…
~ Mr. Cancer, Mr. Cancer, says dying is the answer, Can you kill us? Can you kill us? No you, no you, can’t sir, Radiation and chemo-nation will pull down your pants sir,
~ Now put your head through your legs and kiss your ass goodbye, Our risk/reward is all reward, because our chemo is ‘fly’, Our pros and cons become pom-poms, we cheer for you to die,
~ Nah, nah, nah, nah…nah, nah, nah, nah… hey, hey, cancer, goodbye,
I hope your singing voice is better than mine, I hope your best decisions all turn out just fine, I wish I had better advice for you, about making treatment choices, I suppose I chose the smartest team I could, and listened to their learned voices.
Every day we make decisions and weigh the risk reward, Some are cut-and-dried, while some are double-edged swords, But when it comes to cancer treatment pros and cons, The weighing is heavy, like negotiating with mafia dons,
The doctors make you offers you can’t refuse, Your cancer might kill you, the chemo might too; which do you choose? The radiation will damage you from ear to rear, But your cancer may kill you, choose either and your end may be near,
Spoiler alert! The doctors don’t offer crystal balls, So your decisions will require you to be a know it all, Are you feeling that pressure? I sure did. The questions seemed, “advanced adult”; I felt like a confused little kid,
I educated myself to the best of my normally lazy abilities, Googling what I could, as nervous sweat soaked through my hillbilly tees, I made my decisions, partially informed, with fingers and prayers crossed, Through good doctoring or good luck, I bought more time from the mafia boss,
Good luck be with you, if you’re still weighing cons and pros, Learn what you can, decide and trust your plan, lord only knows how it goes, Well, the doctors know too, I trusted they did, and they do – now here I go,
Here I go, again, breaking into a happily angry survivor song, Why? Because I can’t believe that I’ve, after cancer, lived this long, Drop hard decisions for a minute and sing along…
~ Mr. Cancer, Mr. Cancer, says dying is the answer, Can you kill us? Can you kill us? No you, no you, can’t sir, Radiation and chemo-nation will pull down your pants sir,
~ Now put your head through your legs and kiss your ass goodbye, Our risk/reward is all reward, because our chemo is ‘fly’, Our pros and cons become pom-poms, we cheer for you to die,
~ Nah, nah, nah, nah…nah, nah, nah, nah… hey, hey, cancer, goodbye,
I hope your singing voice is better than mine, I hope your best decisions all turn out just fine, I wish I had better advice for you, about making treatment choices, I suppose I chose the smartest team I could, and listened to their learned voices.
Chuck’n Chancer #6:“KEEPIN’ IT REAL”
I’m cuttin’ straight past the rhymes this time, Upchuck and away with the mirrors and smoke, Straight to the, who I really am, here’s the legal dope: My alter ego, who writes for you, is named Chuck’n Chancer, He hopes to be your heart felt, yet kooky, cancer commiseration answer.
My real name is Sean Presley,
In 2007, at age 42, I was informed that my tailbone area pain and bloody stool symptoms were caused by a cancerous tumor in my colon/rectum. I experienced radiation, chemotherapy, five surgeries, (six weeks of a self-stool-dumping, ileostomy bag hanging on the outside of me), and post-surgery abscess complications. Those complications turned an estimated six days of hospital stay (to incur and recover from a “lower anterior resection”), into a surreal ordeal that lasted fifteen days.
A short list of my agonies include: I was unable to sleep at any point, and full of 24/7 worry for my life and future health; my remade bowels didn’t flow into my new ileostomy bag soon enough, which resulted in a stomach pump situation lasting two long days; my stomach area, due to the surgery, tape and bandages, had red patches of impossible to ignore itching, which irritated me every second for an entire week. And I suffered a day’s long fever which had me laying in my own burning sweat one second, and shivering cold the next.
My surgery removed the tumor, thirteen inches of my colon, and eight inches of rectum, which leaves me with barely enough of my rectum remaining to avoid living with a permanent colostomy bag. I have remained cancer free since the operation. That’s the short version of my cancer résumé. All in all, my cancer struggles lasted about eighteen months; give or take a barf.
And so with that I say, fight cancer with sugar rays, and make it say no mas’, And I say no more of this non-rhyming bore, Tune in right now, for more surviving rhymes galore, Whatever treatments you’re going through, I’ve probably been there and done that, I was a fly on the “cancer center” walls, with ears the size of a bat, And I hung upside down too, out of body and mind from the doctor’s words, So I hope my uppity upright shining light blurbs, will help loosen your uptight nerves,
This is for you and me, Reflections and connections from C to C, This has been Sean and Chuck, ‘Till we meet again, say it with me, “hey cancer, get fk’d”.
I’m cuttin’ straight past the rhymes this time, Upchuck and away with the mirrors and smoke, Straight to the, who I really am, here’s the legal dope: My alter ego, who writes for you, is named Chuck’n Chancer, He hopes to be your heart felt, yet kooky, cancer commiseration answer.
My real name is Sean Presley,
In 2007, at age 42, I was informed that my tailbone area pain and bloody stool symptoms were caused by a cancerous tumor in my colon/rectum. I experienced radiation, chemotherapy, five surgeries, (six weeks of a self-stool-dumping, ileostomy bag hanging on the outside of me), and post-surgery abscess complications. Those complications turned an estimated six days of hospital stay (to incur and recover from a “lower anterior resection”), into a surreal ordeal that lasted fifteen days.
A short list of my agonies include: I was unable to sleep at any point, and full of 24/7 worry for my life and future health; my remade bowels didn’t flow into my new ileostomy bag soon enough, which resulted in a stomach pump situation lasting two long days; my stomach area, due to the surgery, tape and bandages, had red patches of impossible to ignore itching, which irritated me every second for an entire week. And I suffered a day’s long fever which had me laying in my own burning sweat one second, and shivering cold the next.
My surgery removed the tumor, thirteen inches of my colon, and eight inches of rectum, which leaves me with barely enough of my rectum remaining to avoid living with a permanent colostomy bag. I have remained cancer free since the operation. That’s the short version of my cancer résumé. All in all, my cancer struggles lasted about eighteen months; give or take a barf.
And so with that I say, fight cancer with sugar rays, and make it say no mas’, And I say no more of this non-rhyming bore, Tune in right now, for more surviving rhymes galore, Whatever treatments you’re going through, I’ve probably been there and done that, I was a fly on the “cancer center” walls, with ears the size of a bat, And I hung upside down too, out of body and mind from the doctor’s words, So I hope my uppity upright shining light blurbs, will help loosen your uptight nerves,
This is for you and me, Reflections and connections from C to C, This has been Sean and Chuck, ‘Till we meet again, say it with me, “hey cancer, get fk’d”.
Chuck’n Chancer #7:“GOOD CREWS FLOAT LOONEY TUNES”
I want to admit; cancer treatments aren’t part of my daily life anymore, That said, I'm still right with you, all I have to do is close the doors, I close the door to my car, and that old song comes on that was so infectious, The same one I'd always hear, on the way to get my chemo injections, And the beat beats me back with the haunting blues of those queasy reflections,
I close the door to my room, and the window’s beam lances my live strong bracelet, I close the door in my head, blocking out guilt ridden happy thought replacements, I'm still right with you, like it or not; well, I do like this next notable: I know I like it, that victims can legally smoke potent potables,
Now let’s pass it back to you, and get back to the cancer talk stew, Here's some survival advice; get the right crew, Gather a rather strong cancer posse, Choose the best family and friends, who can accept you being bossy, Only those precious few, who can taste your cancerous stew without tossing, This crew will help you through cancer’s cruel mental flossing,
This crew, just for you, to screw depressions booty, You'll improve with a good crew, who will do their dirty duties, Here's some advice about my advice; I’m just some cancer survivor guy, So take what I say with the wink of my eye,
I'm not a doctor, although my mom thinks I'd look good as one on T. V., So take my advice with a grain of salt, whatever the f’k that means, In defense of my cancer advice, I've lived and learned it, more times than, than, twice, And, I truly care about you; I swear that I do; hmm, if that’s too much cheese, I’ll feed the mice,
Of this Mickey Mouse operation, where an anonymous cancer survivor like me, Tries to get in your head with my goofy sense of what cancer is, was, and will be, Daffy as it may seem, sometimes the looniest tunes tame the goons of disease, My car tunes were the cartoons that dropped the anvil on my looming goons, Running them off the road, meep-meep, as I slipped past my doom and gloom,
A thee, a thee, a thee, a that’s all for this rhyme folks, Fight hard today, with good humor, good friends, good barfs, and bad jokes, With fun rumors and digressing tumors, while draped in a good luck cloak,
I want to admit; cancer treatments aren’t part of my daily life anymore, That said, I'm still right with you, all I have to do is close the doors, I close the door to my car, and that old song comes on that was so infectious, The same one I'd always hear, on the way to get my chemo injections, And the beat beats me back with the haunting blues of those queasy reflections,
I close the door to my room, and the window’s beam lances my live strong bracelet, I close the door in my head, blocking out guilt ridden happy thought replacements, I'm still right with you, like it or not; well, I do like this next notable: I know I like it, that victims can legally smoke potent potables,
Now let’s pass it back to you, and get back to the cancer talk stew, Here's some survival advice; get the right crew, Gather a rather strong cancer posse, Choose the best family and friends, who can accept you being bossy, Only those precious few, who can taste your cancerous stew without tossing, This crew will help you through cancer’s cruel mental flossing,
This crew, just for you, to screw depressions booty, You'll improve with a good crew, who will do their dirty duties, Here's some advice about my advice; I’m just some cancer survivor guy, So take what I say with the wink of my eye,
I'm not a doctor, although my mom thinks I'd look good as one on T. V., So take my advice with a grain of salt, whatever the f’k that means, In defense of my cancer advice, I've lived and learned it, more times than, than, twice, And, I truly care about you; I swear that I do; hmm, if that’s too much cheese, I’ll feed the mice,
Of this Mickey Mouse operation, where an anonymous cancer survivor like me, Tries to get in your head with my goofy sense of what cancer is, was, and will be, Daffy as it may seem, sometimes the looniest tunes tame the goons of disease, My car tunes were the cartoons that dropped the anvil on my looming goons, Running them off the road, meep-meep, as I slipped past my doom and gloom,
A thee, a thee, a thee, a that’s all for this rhyme folks, Fight hard today, with good humor, good friends, good barfs, and bad jokes, With fun rumors and digressing tumors, while draped in a good luck cloak,
Chuck’n Chancer #14:“MY SEVEN WORSTS: PART TWO”
Ha-ha, hee-hee, ho-ho, hoo-hoo, I thought we’d start with some forced laughs before worst part number two, It’s actually, really, really, really, worst part number one, It’s hard to imagine any part, or anything being less fun,
The surgeon had explained the worst six weeks, about a half a dozen times, After surgery, my food crap would flow along different lines, Four inches right of my belly button he’d hand cut a brand new hole, And an outside bag would attach right there, to catch my old new flow,
That ileostomy bag hung from me for six hard to believe or forget weeks, When it filled with poo, I’d self-toilet dump it, eew, are you fk’n kidding me, and eek, I was on my knees cringing, a few lowest times, panic fast, Boiling points, with my nose and dignity out of joint, in dirty stations of gas,
That ileostomy bag, was a disgusting drag, It bore self-conflicting thoughts of self-inflicted wounds with a loaded mag, And I wouldn’t know until I was put back together, Whether my ass would sail through and pass true, past the stormy C weather,
My ass did sail true and through, thank you, phew, But those days with that bag, took a toll on the psyche of my crew, My sea legs were never the same. After mulling the end, and the end of my end, I’m far less sane, That’s collateral, colorectal damage from playing the cancer game.
Don’t worry y’all, however shitty that shit sounded, all said and all in all, I feel pretty great, I mean, I still have some balls. I’m still taking this lemon ass life and bouncing lemon scones off the walls, Keep it real; keep it Chuck, Keep runnin’ with me if you’re cancer fk’d.
Ha-ha, hee-hee, ho-ho, hoo-hoo, I thought we’d start with some forced laughs before worst part number two, It’s actually, really, really, really, worst part number one, It’s hard to imagine any part, or anything being less fun,
The surgeon had explained the worst six weeks, about a half a dozen times, After surgery, my food crap would flow along different lines, Four inches right of my belly button he’d hand cut a brand new hole, And an outside bag would attach right there, to catch my old new flow,
That ileostomy bag hung from me for six hard to believe or forget weeks, When it filled with poo, I’d self-toilet dump it, eew, are you fk’n kidding me, and eek, I was on my knees cringing, a few lowest times, panic fast, Boiling points, with my nose and dignity out of joint, in dirty stations of gas,
That ileostomy bag, was a disgusting drag, It bore self-conflicting thoughts of self-inflicted wounds with a loaded mag, And I wouldn’t know until I was put back together, Whether my ass would sail through and pass true, past the stormy C weather,
My ass did sail true and through, thank you, phew, But those days with that bag, took a toll on the psyche of my crew, My sea legs were never the same. After mulling the end, and the end of my end, I’m far less sane, That’s collateral, colorectal damage from playing the cancer game.
Don’t worry y’all, however shitty that shit sounded, all said and all in all, I feel pretty great, I mean, I still have some balls. I’m still taking this lemon ass life and bouncing lemon scones off the walls, Keep it real; keep it Chuck, Keep runnin’ with me if you’re cancer fk’d.
Chuck’n Chancer #17:“MY SEVEN WORSTS: PART FIVE”
Chuck’s worst of the worst, part number five, I’m gonna talk, About my first post-surgery zombie walks, First, the struggle to get out of bed, Fighting the gown, getting feet down, full of worrisome wonder and dread,
My stapled guts felt like spaghetti noodles sloshing around inside, With my first foot down, my new guts danced around and tried me on for size, Second foot down, room spins around, my soul asks, “When am I”? Left right, left right, “look ma, I’m walkin!”, But once outside of my cocooned room, my self-conscious started balkin’,
These were the very first steps of my branded new life, And not one single thing felt just right, I was stitched tight, and couldn’t stand up fully straight, I needed a walker, like great grandma had; I didn’t think it so great,
Actually, the walker doubled as my I. V. holder, I felt like an X-file alien, I kept looking for Scully and Mulder, I was told to walk laps around the nurse’s desks and such, I walked super slowly, my friendly I. V. rolled as my new shadow and my crutch, I was passed by fellow lapping sad sacks; in pink hospital socks, I was stumbling over hurdles of massive humbling, during those slow zombie walks,
But oh boy, I was happy to be out of my jail cell room, But oh man, poor woman, it was a rough sight, seeing the other inmates gloom, I was still out of body and mind, but trying to get back in, Who was I now? Holy cow; cancer really took me for a spin,
When I was zombie walking, my eyes did all the talking, And they spoke mostly to the floor; “hello, I’d feel better about cleaner caulking”, I had nothing real to say, and I didn’t know who I was, I walked inside the land of the zombies, outside I heard real life’s buzz,
I did one slow lap my first time out, Then back to my bed for more worry and pouts, You know, I suppose I did know who I was during that post surgery week, I was a zombie, half human, half victim, getting better, feeling meek
Chuck’s worst of the worst, part number five, I’m gonna talk, About my first post-surgery zombie walks, First, the struggle to get out of bed, Fighting the gown, getting feet down, full of worrisome wonder and dread,
My stapled guts felt like spaghetti noodles sloshing around inside, With my first foot down, my new guts danced around and tried me on for size, Second foot down, room spins around, my soul asks, “When am I”? Left right, left right, “look ma, I’m walkin!”, But once outside of my cocooned room, my self-conscious started balkin’,
These were the very first steps of my branded new life, And not one single thing felt just right, I was stitched tight, and couldn’t stand up fully straight, I needed a walker, like great grandma had; I didn’t think it so great,
Actually, the walker doubled as my I. V. holder, I felt like an X-file alien, I kept looking for Scully and Mulder, I was told to walk laps around the nurse’s desks and such, I walked super slowly, my friendly I. V. rolled as my new shadow and my crutch, I was passed by fellow lapping sad sacks; in pink hospital socks, I was stumbling over hurdles of massive humbling, during those slow zombie walks,
But oh boy, I was happy to be out of my jail cell room, But oh man, poor woman, it was a rough sight, seeing the other inmates gloom, I was still out of body and mind, but trying to get back in, Who was I now? Holy cow; cancer really took me for a spin,
When I was zombie walking, my eyes did all the talking, And they spoke mostly to the floor; “hello, I’d feel better about cleaner caulking”, I had nothing real to say, and I didn’t know who I was, I walked inside the land of the zombies, outside I heard real life’s buzz,
I did one slow lap my first time out, Then back to my bed for more worry and pouts, You know, I suppose I did know who I was during that post surgery week, I was a zombie, half human, half victim, getting better, feeling meek
Chuck’n Chancer #24:“SURVIVORS RISE ABOVE”
Chuck’s got the coffee on, but I can’t drink it, The sunrise peeks, but I must screen it, A new day dawns but cancer reams it, And that’s okay, it really is, my smile rises and gives life a kiss,
I love this life, cancer damaged, but I love this world, Good mornings are still good. There are still laughing boys and girls, Great nights are still great, with moons that spotlight lover’s twirls, I can still love life, while cancer hate eats my soul, I can still enjoy the colorful mess, From my morning jelly rolls,
Are you seeing that; are you feeling me; this survivor’s rise above? If you’re reading this, you hold me up, and I can’t be supported enough, Tomorrow’s another morning; can I rise above again? Are you rising up as you’re sizing up the damage done within? I’ll rise with you, if you rise with me; O. M. G., how corny, too bad, I’m about to sing:
~ Rise above, rise above; rise above with me, With our strength, with resolve, with our love, we’ll breathe, The scent of a better life, Cancer yes, but it will be all right, There’s still a sun, we still can laugh, and the moon still holds the night,
~ Rise above, rise above; rise above with me, With our strength, with resolve, with our love, we’ll see, The view of a better life, Cancer yes, but it will be all right, There’s still a moon, we still can laugh, and the sun still shines on bright.
Did you break into that song with me? That’s okay, or thanks, Maybe you’re still in a blank stare stage, on Introvert Island without Wilson or Hanks, That’s cool; we all get in tune with our victim voices in good time, I’ll sing for you and me, until you raise up to hit the notes high, But no more short sung songs today, I’m gonna drink some tea and write, And look up, and out, for life’s beauty, to spite the dimming of cancer’s light.
Chuck’s got the coffee on, but I can’t drink it, The sunrise peeks, but I must screen it, A new day dawns but cancer reams it, And that’s okay, it really is, my smile rises and gives life a kiss,
I love this life, cancer damaged, but I love this world, Good mornings are still good. There are still laughing boys and girls, Great nights are still great, with moons that spotlight lover’s twirls, I can still love life, while cancer hate eats my soul, I can still enjoy the colorful mess, From my morning jelly rolls,
Are you seeing that; are you feeling me; this survivor’s rise above? If you’re reading this, you hold me up, and I can’t be supported enough, Tomorrow’s another morning; can I rise above again? Are you rising up as you’re sizing up the damage done within? I’ll rise with you, if you rise with me; O. M. G., how corny, too bad, I’m about to sing:
~ Rise above, rise above; rise above with me, With our strength, with resolve, with our love, we’ll breathe, The scent of a better life, Cancer yes, but it will be all right, There’s still a sun, we still can laugh, and the moon still holds the night,
~ Rise above, rise above; rise above with me, With our strength, with resolve, with our love, we’ll see, The view of a better life, Cancer yes, but it will be all right, There’s still a moon, we still can laugh, and the sun still shines on bright.
Did you break into that song with me? That’s okay, or thanks, Maybe you’re still in a blank stare stage, on Introvert Island without Wilson or Hanks, That’s cool; we all get in tune with our victim voices in good time, I’ll sing for you and me, until you raise up to hit the notes high, But no more short sung songs today, I’m gonna drink some tea and write, And look up, and out, for life’s beauty, to spite the dimming of cancer’s light.
Chuck’n Chancer #29:“HEY, CANCER, LEAVE THEM TITS ALONE"Today I'll bitch for you and me; and I'll bitch from me to you, A dash of complaints, a splash of depression, yum-yum, cancer stew, Let's stew in a medicinal pot of self-pity, Let's salt our anger, until we smell and swell to fully feeling shitty,
“I feel shitty, oh so shitty, I feel shitty and pity; not wise, And I pity any fool who is me tonight”,
Oh snap! Rhyming with pity reminds me, One cancer type makes me so mad that it freakin' blinds me, Although I always get sad when I rhyme with self-pity, however witty, As a man that I am, and a wordy ham: “I damn you forever, cancer of the titties!”
How could it? Why would it? Cancer, if it must, but not in tits! Please somebody find a breast cancer cure, before I lose my wits, Rainbows, ice creams, diamonds, rubies, Nothing compares to a love for boobies, Bad cancer, bad cancer, now look at what you've done! Take your vampire cells and go bathe in the midday sun!
Take some ears and pinkie toes, or cause us gnarly moans, Give cancer to all the world’s plastic garden gnomes, But leave a woman's breasts alone.
Don't make me come down there, you cancerous devil! I'll stick that pitchfork up your red hole, leaving you blanched and disheveled! On second thought, I won't stoop to your level, But please, I beg you cancer, don't mess with the best, The best feel, the best love, comes from a woman's breast, Let’s all drum up a cure, with the beat of a pound on our King Kong chests.
“I feel shitty, oh so shitty, I feel shitty and pity; not wise, And I pity any fool who is me tonight”,
Oh snap! Rhyming with pity reminds me, One cancer type makes me so mad that it freakin' blinds me, Although I always get sad when I rhyme with self-pity, however witty, As a man that I am, and a wordy ham: “I damn you forever, cancer of the titties!”
How could it? Why would it? Cancer, if it must, but not in tits! Please somebody find a breast cancer cure, before I lose my wits, Rainbows, ice creams, diamonds, rubies, Nothing compares to a love for boobies, Bad cancer, bad cancer, now look at what you've done! Take your vampire cells and go bathe in the midday sun!
Take some ears and pinkie toes, or cause us gnarly moans, Give cancer to all the world’s plastic garden gnomes, But leave a woman's breasts alone.
Don't make me come down there, you cancerous devil! I'll stick that pitchfork up your red hole, leaving you blanched and disheveled! On second thought, I won't stoop to your level, But please, I beg you cancer, don't mess with the best, The best feel, the best love, comes from a woman's breast, Let’s all drum up a cure, with the beat of a pound on our King Kong chests.
Chuck’n Chancer #41:“SURVIVOR’S NIRVANA”
I’ll peel away from the sadness of the dark side of cancer’s banana, And harken back to the pinnacle weeks of my sweet post-cancer nirvana, To let you know, that when your C game is over, you’ll be the king of the universe, I know I was; full of pride and self-love, due to beating cancer’s curse,
I went a tad over righteous; over “I’m the greatest”, over “I beat cancer”, overboard, This one girl I dated dumped me, on the way out, gasping, “Oh my gourd, Just because you survived cancer, doesn’t mean you’re a demi-lord”,
But I didn’t much care; not during those flying high weeks, I’m very grateful for that magical time, it gave me an inside peek, Into a frame of mind I didn’t know that I owned, Although, I found it’s best to flaunt it, only when you’re alone, But, it’s nice to know it’s there when I want it; an endless “I survived”, well, Those top-of-the-world days were fun, and needed; a reward for enduring C’s hell,
Those weeks are ego re-boots too, that set your hiding spirit free, Cancer beats down our springs my friends; when you beat it, you spring eternal x3, I hope you’ll win, I hope you’ll spring, but as always, maybe it was just me, We all beat cancer’s ass, in our own crazy ways, My victory lap lasted for weeks; my new template when I contemplate content days,
But alas, the daily grind of being your average Chuck, Makes it hard to skip to nirvana, when every footstep brings up muck, But alas, my ass, I back the excuse truck up and wonder why, Why can’t I fly high every single day, and kiss the sky on my way by? I rue that life gets in the way; I long for those days when I was super fly,
May all your grungy days pass fast, May your teen spirit rise, and cheer you on with pom-pom sass, Until nirvana’s security guard acknowledges your back stage pass, Then let the beautiful music rock your world, for as long as you can make it last.
I’ll peel away from the sadness of the dark side of cancer’s banana, And harken back to the pinnacle weeks of my sweet post-cancer nirvana, To let you know, that when your C game is over, you’ll be the king of the universe, I know I was; full of pride and self-love, due to beating cancer’s curse,
I went a tad over righteous; over “I’m the greatest”, over “I beat cancer”, overboard, This one girl I dated dumped me, on the way out, gasping, “Oh my gourd, Just because you survived cancer, doesn’t mean you’re a demi-lord”,
But I didn’t much care; not during those flying high weeks, I’m very grateful for that magical time, it gave me an inside peek, Into a frame of mind I didn’t know that I owned, Although, I found it’s best to flaunt it, only when you’re alone, But, it’s nice to know it’s there when I want it; an endless “I survived”, well, Those top-of-the-world days were fun, and needed; a reward for enduring C’s hell,
Those weeks are ego re-boots too, that set your hiding spirit free, Cancer beats down our springs my friends; when you beat it, you spring eternal x3, I hope you’ll win, I hope you’ll spring, but as always, maybe it was just me, We all beat cancer’s ass, in our own crazy ways, My victory lap lasted for weeks; my new template when I contemplate content days,
But alas, the daily grind of being your average Chuck, Makes it hard to skip to nirvana, when every footstep brings up muck, But alas, my ass, I back the excuse truck up and wonder why, Why can’t I fly high every single day, and kiss the sky on my way by? I rue that life gets in the way; I long for those days when I was super fly,
May all your grungy days pass fast, May your teen spirit rise, and cheer you on with pom-pom sass, Until nirvana’s security guard acknowledges your back stage pass, Then let the beautiful music rock your world, for as long as you can make it last.
Chuck’n Chancer #42:“GOOD RIDE, GOOD DAY, GOOD LUCK”
This is it, final page; I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride, I hope I helped quell your fear and rage, and made you laugh a bit more than cry, I hope you make it to where I am, survived and looking back, I hope you’re keeping it all together, in the midst of your out-of-whack, I hope your hope is full of hope, even though the end of your rope needs slack, I hope your slope, while you’re full of healing dope, isn’t so steep that you crash,
That was it, my last lasting hopes; the hope is all yours now, Take the reins and ride your horse, be the boss and make cancer your cow, Make it kowtow to the force of your positive will, Keep sippin’ your chemo, keep flippin’ the bird and keep tippin’ that cow ‘till it spills,
This is it, the final lines of my questionable rhyming word play, Thanks for listening, thanks for enduring; I’m sorry we share this pain, This has been, I’m not sure what, but it’s surely been Chuck’n Chancer, You have cancer, and you’ll do what you need to do; yes ma’am, and yes you can sir,
Hmm, now what to do that I’m cancer free and I’ve spilled my guts to you? Hmm, hey, I know, I know, I’ll streamline my dreams and build a canoe, And I’ll row, row, row, my boat, gently down life’s stream, Merrily, merrily, even though warily, cancer won’t ruin my dreams, Row, row, row, your boat, gently down cancer’s stream, Merrily, merrily, even though warily, cancer can be creamed.
It has been a great pleasure and a great honor, To share the unsolicited wisdom I’ve gained from surviving my Donner- Pass type experience. I’ve typed fast, and tried not to typecast any victims, May we all find peace, during and after our cancer genes kicked-in, I’ll leave you, and make like a ghost, with this final simple toast, “Let the best of luck go to those who need it the most”.
This is it, final page; I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride, I hope I helped quell your fear and rage, and made you laugh a bit more than cry, I hope you make it to where I am, survived and looking back, I hope you’re keeping it all together, in the midst of your out-of-whack, I hope your hope is full of hope, even though the end of your rope needs slack, I hope your slope, while you’re full of healing dope, isn’t so steep that you crash,
That was it, my last lasting hopes; the hope is all yours now, Take the reins and ride your horse, be the boss and make cancer your cow, Make it kowtow to the force of your positive will, Keep sippin’ your chemo, keep flippin’ the bird and keep tippin’ that cow ‘till it spills,
This is it, the final lines of my questionable rhyming word play, Thanks for listening, thanks for enduring; I’m sorry we share this pain, This has been, I’m not sure what, but it’s surely been Chuck’n Chancer, You have cancer, and you’ll do what you need to do; yes ma’am, and yes you can sir,
Hmm, now what to do that I’m cancer free and I’ve spilled my guts to you? Hmm, hey, I know, I know, I’ll streamline my dreams and build a canoe, And I’ll row, row, row, my boat, gently down life’s stream, Merrily, merrily, even though warily, cancer won’t ruin my dreams, Row, row, row, your boat, gently down cancer’s stream, Merrily, merrily, even though warily, cancer can be creamed.
It has been a great pleasure and a great honor, To share the unsolicited wisdom I’ve gained from surviving my Donner- Pass type experience. I’ve typed fast, and tried not to typecast any victims, May we all find peace, during and after our cancer genes kicked-in, I’ll leave you, and make like a ghost, with this final simple toast, “Let the best of luck go to those who need it the most”.
Contact Sean by Email at: sean@seanpresleywrites.com © Copyright 2017 Sean Presley - All Rights Reserved
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