Tuesday, April 12, 2005


"I cannot go to work today,"
Said Nic, while in her bed she lay.

"I have a hole in my stomach wall,
It hurts just lying in a ball.

My tummy's empty, my mouth is dry,
I really fear that I may die.

I'm nauseous and I don't feel well,
I've counted sixteen heaving spells

And there's one more--that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?

My finger's cut--my eyes are blue--
It can't just be the stomach flu.

Each time I gag, I gasp and choke,
I'm sure my heart's irreparably broke--

My head hurts when I move too fast,
Oh, how much longer must this last?

My back is wrenched, my throat, it burns,
To just feel healthy, how I yearn.

My body's cold, my stomach aches.
I don't know how much I can take.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.

My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.

My belly's sore, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.

I'm dizzy and I cannot hear,
I fear the end is drawing near.

I have a hangnail, and I feel like--what?
What's that? What's that you said?
You think it's all just in my head?
I wish it was, now I'm going back to bed."

Adapted from Shel Silverstein's "Sick" in Where the Sidewalk Ends.

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