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?
The Daily Travesty 