This poem was transcribed from the original

hand written document. This is the original poem

written by Otis Lael during one of his hospital stays.

He often "performed" or "sang" the Bedpan Blues in

front of various audiences and events. Being that this

is the original draft of the poem, it differs somewhat

from what it eventually became. The Bedpan Blues

when performed by Otis often had his audiences cry-

laughing. It became his signature piece.

The Bed Pan Blues

By Otis W Lael

I’ve got the strangest feeling, way down in my gut.

That they’ll never build a bedpan, that’ll fit my but.

I’ve got the bedpan blues, that’s what I’ve got.

This is the fourteenth bed pan that I’ve bought.

It just aint seeming natural, to go lying down.

Whoever thought up the bedpan, must have been a clown.

I’ve got the bedpan blues, lying on my sack.

I’d buy a different bedpan, but I aint got the Jack.

That bedpan is cold, and your hands are too,

Your back arched on the bedpan will sure make you blue.

I’ve got the bedpan blues, the nurses fingers are so cold.

But her temper sure gets hot, if my fingers do get bold.

I’ve got the bedpan blues, this ones made of tin,

It’d surely be a nice pot to plant a cactus garden in.

I’ve got the bedpan blues, deep within my soul,

I’ll never get this job done, ‘cause the bedpans too cold.

I’ve got the bedpan blues, take me off it now!

It aint built to lay on, or I don’t know how.

Now when I die and go to Heaven, St. Peter at the gate.

If he’s got a bedpan I’m going to make him wait.

I’ve got the bedpan blues, a lot of good it’ll do.

From the look on St. Peter’s face, he’s got ‘em too.

Ill always sit and wonder when I’m adding up the score,

Why the patients in this hospital haven’t written this before.

I’ve got the bedpan blues, now they wheeled in the potty chair.

I’ve tried to use their bedpan, but I’m pulling out my hair.

Now if I had the postage, I tell you what I’d do,

I’d package them for Christmas and send them all to you.

I’d get rid of the bedpan blues, but I’m too broke to try,

With the bedpan blues, I’ll hang my head and cry.

Ex-Lax wont cure it, Pepto Bismol wont work for me,

I’ve tried Correctol, till I just cant see.

The bedpan blues, I’ve found the cure for I hope,

Make a hangman’s noose from a good stout rope.

Throw it over the rafters, hang the bedpan there.

Go down to the bathroom after you kick out the chair.

Lost the bedpan blues, no need to plant them with cactus,

I’ve bought a twenty-two now, I’ll get some rifle practice.

When the nurse comes in, and the shooting stops,

I’m Psycho Ward bound, and they called the cops.

Now this poem can end with a bedpan fit,

But it’ll have to stop ‘cause I’m out of wit.

                            Otis W. Lael