In its clean cut through my flesh
My fingertip left hanging
Sheared up to the first knuckle
But you bind and find a bandaid
And spray with antiseptic
Keep working that's the rule
It will all be cool
Like in the old days when mum
Dressed wounds with Betadine and cloth
She'd take them off after a week
And we'd be good to play
Though maybe these days it aint the same
Four days later the festering smell
Makes you change the dressing and you think
Looking at the pus seeping stink
This has all turned very very bad
Off to the hospital where
After hours of waiting
The Doctor says it has to come off
Chop chop on the old digit my son
You won't be pointing out faults again
I say chop it, chop it off
I can live with being a digitless man
But the prognosis improves
With the aid of antibiotics
Seems like an oxymoron to me
But apparently they work in practise
So I keep my finger complete with scar
Reminding me of how close I've been
To cutting through to other side
And finding the flesh unseen.
© shaun patrick green 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment