Thursday, February 5, 2009

Wash Your Hands Obsessively, Excessively.

"It's a sort of, mild case
I've been through this before."
Is what I told my doctor
As I lay there on the floor

"All the times, previous,
It came in with a bang
Stomach tied all up in knots
An awful, sickly pang.

The first time round, I drowned it
Starvation for the last,
It's been a struggle, sometimes war
For cases in the past

But doctor, dear, this one I've got
Grew slowly in my gut
I know not whence it came from
Nor which door I must shut

This sickness, gentle, fleeting
Chokes my speech and guides my eyes
Are there no vaccines?
No way to sanitize?

My doctor just peered down his nose
And slowly shook his head
He sighed and scowled and glowered
And this to me, he said

"You've done this to yourself
I'm certain that you know
This illness is preventible
You're the one who let it grow."

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