A BLADE FOR MY BUNION

A rather silly verse...

You poor old soldier, was it war?

Or did your leg fall off long before

You fired a pistol at your foe,

And was it many years ago?

A decade past, or maybe more,

A blasting bomb savagely tore

Into your flesh and ripped that leg

And these limbless days, do you have to beg?

Is that why you’re in that chair?

Nursey pushing you from here to there?

And when you need to use the loo

Does she have to handle that for you?

No sir, though you are kind

To bring my absent leg to mind,

But the truth is really hard to say,

I had a bunion and it was here to stay

Until I had a grand idea

And without thought and without fear

I took a blade into my dingy shed

And soon my bunion was liquid red.

And then my troubles were begun,

And what came next was far from fun

My shed had germs in hiding, germs unseen…

And my poor leg turned from red to green

I prayed my bunion would return

But I was slow to think and learn

As my wretched leg began to reek

And I was just a stinking freak...

And when I visited the quack

He took a saw and had to hack

Until my leg lay on the ground

And my bleeding stump was tightly bound

The moral here you might discern

And it’s never so late you cannot learn,

Never try an amputation...

Without a proper qualification…

© Peter Rogerson, 15.09.22

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