The hot
is like the world
it's not
a silver streak
but's bracing.
This afternoon
the subplot's
brought
a sickly lass
upon a cot,
though what disease
she's really got,
is false, or vain
or else ill got.
And here
we sit,
or there,
or there,
and her disease
is everywhere
and we both know
a pear's a pear
stuck here
turgid
the Illness Lair.
Without reprieve,
and in despair.
Sick! Sick!
