humour, Life

Playing footsie



“Take with a meal” the packet said, and “take four times a day,”

Four meals?” my waistline asked in shock, “is there no other way?”

“Four meals,” I sighed reluctantly, “I’m not prepared to risk it.”

“But four...” my waistline whimpered back, “can’t we just have a biscuit?”

My foot had got the upper hand and most of my attention,

My waistline just had to comply and abstain from abstention.

The diet that was doing fine is on the road to Hell…

The fault lies squarely with my foot which isn’t very well.

What started as a nagging ache soon really went to town…

I’m sitting with the thing propped up to keep the swelling down.

It’s stuck out in an arabesque upon a dining chair…

The dog’s upset, ’cause that’s her place and now a foot is there.

I’ve tried the steaming bathtub soak and quantities of ice

Which, with the English climate, really isn’t very nice.

I paced the floor at midnight cursing loudly at the pain,

Then tried to read or write or sleep, all three of them in vain.

I gave up in the end and reached reluctantly for pills,

The ones that say they ‘kill pain fast’ and ‘remedy all ills’.

They worked okay and slumber drew a veil before my eyes;

I dreamed of elephantine feet, a nightmare in disguise.

Now this, of course, was Friday night, the weekend lay ahead,

The docs weren’t there, so I went with the painkillers instead.

Four meals a day, it said, so three times four I sat and ate…

And so I blame my foot for all my waistline’s extra weight.

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