A small and unregarded cut
That should have healed untreated but
Upon the thing that pierced my skin
Their lurked some germs that once within
This ready meal with ample room
Had quite a population boom.
With a million bugs soon busily
Both breeding and digesting me,
My own defences, beaten, fled,
My poor thumb turned a fiery red
And rapidly, before my eyes,
Grew to quite enormous size!
I rushed it to the Doctor where
She gasped and cried, "I do declare
That's quite the worst I've ever seen!
What have you done? Where has it been?
If we can't stop the poison's spread
We must amputate or you'll be dead!!!"
She approached my throbbing digit
With a scalpel to stick in it
Or at least that's what I think she planned
For I snatched away my injured hand
In a reflex that I couldn't stop
And hit the chair with a dull, wet, "PLOP!!!"
It instantly felt better
And when she grabbed my wrist, I let her
Shove my hand beneath a running tap
While she got bandages to wrap
Around it to protect it
From what might yet re-infect it.
She then prescribed me pills, explaining
They would kill off any bugs remaining
And working from the inside out
Would get them all without a doubt.
This poem's moral, I suppose, is
Wear stout gloves when pruning roses....
