The Convalescent Gripster

The gods let slip that fiendish grip     Upon me last week Sunday--     No fiercer storm than racked my form     E'er swept the Bay of Fundy;     But now, good-by     To drugs, say I--     Good-by to gnawing sorrow;     I am up to-day,     And, whoop, hooray!     I'm going out to-morrow!     What aches and pain in bones and brain     I had I need not mention;     It seemed to me such pangs must be     Old Satan's own invention;     Albeit I     Was sure I'd die,     The doctor reassured me--     And, true enough,     With his vile stuff,     He ultimately cured me.     As there I lay in bed all day,     How fair outside looked to me!     A smile so mild old Nature smiled     It seemed to warm clean through me.     In chastened mood     The scene I viewed,     Inventing, sadly solus,     Fantastic rhymes     Between the times     I had to take a bolus.     Of quinine slugs and other drugs     I guess I took a million--     Such drugs as serve to set each nerve     To dancing a cotillon;     The doctors say     The only way     To rout the grip instanter     Is to pour in     All kinds of sin--     Similibus curantur!     'Twas hard; and yet I'll soon forget     Those ills and cures distressing;     One's future lies 'neath gorgeous skies     When one is convalescing!     So now, good-by     To drugs say I--     Good-by, thou phantom Sorrow!     I am up to-day,     And, whoop, hooray!     I'm going out to-morrow.