This movement had its own eight stages,
Some long enough to feel like ages.
The first began just after fish
Was served to me as my main dish.
The second started when a twinge
Became a cramp that made me cringe.
The third occurred once I lay down
And pain still caused my face to frown.
The fourth produced a mighty urge
To find a proper place to purge.
The fifth, oh my, brought great relief
That proved, alas, to be too brief.
The sixth returned me to the throne,
A private site to moan and groan.
The seventh took me back to bed,
A husband snoring near my head.
The eighth permitted me some sleep,
Most welcome whether light or deep.
Now I, no longer weak and wan,
Can share the whole phenomenon.