For My Beloved Wife On The Occasion Of Her Illness

My girl is sick. She has the ick.

It makes her feel bad.

But she is lucky, ‘cause even when yucky

She’s married to me, her lad.

I make her soup that makes her poop

So all the germs come out,

And then she goes and blows her nose

And snot comes out her snout!

Now free of dreck, my darling Beck

May lay upon our couch.

I am her boulder, her comforting shoulder

For whenever she feels an ouch.

Soon will be when her and me

Go off to bed to sleep

And since she coughed I talk so soft

And help her count the sheep.

And when she wakes, the sound she makes

Is more thunder than snore

But through the night her gut got right;

She’s better than before.

So we repeat until her feet

Are under her anew.

My medical care is extraordinaire

Or so I think. Do you?