Today, every joint aches, they’re giving him jip
From head to in grown toenail but mostly hip
What profound use are those little white pills
They are only dulling, they are curing no ills
Yet he persists, every four hours take two
He’ll continue this action until he’s blue in the face
A hot whiskey he’s informed, with some cloves and brown sugar
Perhaps he’ll try two, might make him feel even better?
Now he’s tried all prescribed remedies
Yet still his joints ache
Blessed be the pacemaker
That on life gave him one more take.
(c)Poetry from The ManShed
17/8/19
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