Mustn’t Grumble


My hands are worse this winter.
My feet are worser still.
My teeth are worsest, by a street,
And every blessed time I eat
I feel extremely ill.

I’m never one to grumble.
Of course I don’t complain,
But how I suffer no-one knows.
The agony just grows and grows.
See, there it is again.

I won’t last out till Christmas.
I’ve always been ill-starred.
Some might be sorry, come the day
And some might not. It’s hard to say,
But not that bleeding hard.

No need to send a card.

A Poet’s Prayer