THE CONVALESCENT GRIPSTER

The gods let slip that fiendish grip

Upon me last week Sunday —

No fiercer storm than racked my form

E'er swept the Bay of Fundy;

But now, good-by

To drugs, say I —

Good-by to gnawing sorrow;

I am up to-day,

And, whoop, hooray!

I'm going out to-morrow!

What aches and pain in bones and brain

I had I need not mention;

It seemed to me such pangs must be

Old Satan's own invention;

Albeit I

Was sure I'd die,

The doctor reassured me —

And, true enough,

With his vile stuff,

He ultimately cured me.

As there I lay in bed all day,

How fair outside looked to me!

A smile so mild old Nature smiled

It seemed to warm clean through me.

In chastened mood

The scene I viewed,

Inventing, sadly solus,

Fantastic rhymes

Between the times

I had to take a bolus.

Of quinine slugs and other drugs

I guess I took a million —

Such drugs as serve to set each nerve

To dancing a cotillon;

The doctors say

The only way

To rout the grip instanter

Is to pour in

All kinds of sin —

Similibus curantur!

‘ Twas hard; and yet I'll soon forget

Those ills and cures distressing;

One's future lies‘ neath gorgeous skies

When one is convalescing!

So now, good-by

To drugs say I —

Good-by, thou phantom Sorrow!

I am up to-day,

And, whoop, hooray!

I'm going out to-morrow.