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.