Saturday Morning

At ten o’clock I got up from my bed
And made myself another cup of tea.
My leg, wrapped up loosely, still hurting me,
Still healing slowly, still ugly and red,
Reminds me that I’m better off not dead.
I worry that the month (or two, or three)
That this will take (it runs on endlessly)
Will leave me stuck here, no further ahead.

It’s two weeks since the doctors let me out
And sent me home. They called the operation
A big success, a medical sensation,
But I have shpilkes, soreness, itch, and gout.
I’m drinking hard and trying not to pout
(This very nice Gewürz here is Alsatian).