I rammed an awl into my index finger a few days ago, and now have to type one-handed. (Yeah, in theory I should be able to type nine-fingered, but in practice my wounded finger keeps automatically jumping in to help unless I restrain the whole hand.)

Please compose greeting card verses (get well soon, sympathy, congratulations) to cheer me up.

Julie Stoner

Julie,

Your finger's wound will outheal my heart's;
Your title, directed at me, is what smarts.

Jason

[This message has been edited by Jason Kerr (edited July 21, 2006).]

It thuckth, to dthab your finger with
an awl. You got thomeone to kith
the boo-boo, for you? What a pain!
Whoothe gonna wipe up that blood-thtain?
I know it hurt-th, 'cauthe we're connected.
(Hope it doethen't get infected.)
It'th gonna throb, if you don't keep
it elevated. Ithe it deep
(the hole it made, ithe what I'm athking)?
Uthe toilet paper and thome mathking
tape, to bind it with, if you
are out of gauthe. Of courth, it'th true
that, wunth the bleeding'th thopped, you thould
exthpothe it to the air. It'th good,
if you thould have Mercurochrome
thomewhere around (athe every home
thould have), to uthe it to annoint
the wound. I gueth you get the point.
From me and all the other thwithethe,
pleathe acthept our warmetht withethe.



[This message has been edited by Larry Powers (edited July 21, 2006).]

Ouch!

And now to add to your pain.

I'm sorry that you're hurt at awl,
but if you had to be,
I'm glad you did it with an awl,
conveniently for me.

I'm glad you didn't take a fall
and fuddle up your femur,
or smash into a concrete wall
and blitzify your Beemer;

or, in the bowels of some mall,
slip and trash your tibia
while squatting in a bathroom stall
('cause then we'd hafta rib ya);

or leap into a barroom brawl
and total your patella,
or throw a rabid dog a ball
and end up like Old Yella;

or find yourself supine, asprawl,
and clutching at your clavicle,
run over by some drunken pol
who doesn't even have a cl-

ue; or capsize in a squall
and fructify your fibula,
or find yourself in the evil thrall
of drooling old Count Dribula;

or try to fake a Southern drawl
and fracture your papillae,
encouraging rhymes that are appall-
ing, ludicrous, and silly.

In short I'm glad, if y'had to maul
some part, it was your finger,
and that you did it with an awl.
Get well, and don't malinger!


[This message has been edited by Rose Kelleher (edited July 21, 2006).]

I have an old "classic joke" poem with the title "It Could Be Worse." I know the poem itself could be better.

IT COULD BE WORSE

Teddy always said, “It could be worse.”
To every cloud he found the silver lining.
As all his friends would mutter, weep and curse,
Teddy always undercut their whining

by saying that the tragedy, though gory,
“could have been worse.” And so his friends determined
that they would manufacture a tragic story
so awful even Teddy would affirm it

couldn’t be worse. The next time they saw Ted,
they asked him, “Have you heard about poor William?
Last Saturday he found his wife in bed
with Alexander, took a gun and killed him,

then murdered his wife and committed suicide!”
“It could be worse,” was all that Teddy said.
“How so?” his friends demanded. He replied:
“If it had been last Friday, I’d be dead!”

[This message has been edited by Roger Slater (edited July 21, 2006).]

The Inconsolable

"It could be worse!" the smiling nurses
say, and, "Count your blessings!"
while down below the idling hearses
wait for the last confessings.

I'm sick of all the consoling verses
and every cheery letter.
On my last day I'll count my curses
and cry: "It could be better!"


Two Truths

"It could be worse," the wise men say, and surely that is true,
but the wisest of them sometimes add: "It could be better, too."

It's oft believed the poet's mind
is what makes poems, on command;
but those who've written for some time
have learned it's really awl in the hand.

*snicker*

Get well, soon.

ps: I know - that was awl-ful.

[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited July 22, 2006).]

Thank you very much for your warm thoughts! I'd love to return the favor! Anyone have a booboo I can kiss?

Julie Stoner

PS--I'm thinking hangnails, not hemorrhoids, for the boo-boo kissing. But, from a distance, I'll write you a sympathetic verse for just about any ailment.

Got one for apathy, brought on by old age????

When I was young, I was invested
in all the issues of the day.
But now that I have climbed and crested
a certain hill, I'm glad to say
that I'm no longer ruled by passions.
It's not that I have no beliefs
or criticisms of the fashions
that others follow, but my beefs
with politics and social mores
don't seem to matter quite as much
as they once did. I make few forays
to town, nor do I keep in touch
with world events. The strident railings
of those who've always got a bone
to pick remind me of the failings
I once displayed, myself. They drone
on, rabble-rousers, world-improvers,
servants of the One True God,
attempting to convince us "movers
and shakers" to embrace this fraud
or that. But I ignore their urgent
requests for money. I don't sign
petitions dealing with emergent
conditions. Things would be just fine,
if people'd only pay attention
to their own business, like I do.
So, leave me out of your dissention.
I'm done with that, and done with you.