Saturday, August 07, 2010

Unseated

It's not infected; I'm quite sure it's not.
It looks bad, but I don't believe that's pus
Congealing on the skin. Don't make a fuss
About a little wound like that. You fought,
You hurt somebody else, and also caught
That scratch. There was that doctor on the bus,
Who dressed the wound well, reassuring us
That you'd be fine. Don't tell me you forgot.

Of course, there was that other blow you took,
The large umbrella on your tender head,
Just after what you ought not to have said
Was said, and the old lady raged and shook
And, swiping at you with her shiny hook,
Unseated you. Let's get you home to bed.

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