From The Sun, March 12, 1914. By George B. Morewood.
I’m sick all through, from top to toes
The way my pulses ebb and flow
Would seem to indicate, alack,
That my complaint is cardiac;
But I have lost all taste for food,
So gastric ills I must include;
Again, though far indeed from death,
At times a catch comes in my breath;
My bosom heaves till ‘twould appear
That pulmonary trouble’s near.
Next there’s a tingling of the nerves
That diagnosis well deserves,
Since of all ills by which man’s cursed
The neuropathic are the worst.
I met a lady fair last week
To whom I found it hard to speak.
My vocal cords must be amiss.
Else, whence came their paralysis?
Cerebric lesions, too, I fear,
Because my mind was far from clear.
But I’ve one symptom stranger yet,
Though thus completely I’m upset.
Life seems more joyous, strange to tell,
Than e’er it did when I was well.
What’s wrought me up to such a pitch?
I am the victim of a witch!
I feel her spell is o’er me thrown,
’Tis she can cure and she alone!