A CHRISTMAS TALE FROM THE CHEST
Shingle Bells! Shingle Bells! Oh, it's no fun to be guest to red blotches on my chest. I'll be so glad on the day they go away. I said Hi! Hi! Hi! I'll say Bye! Bye! Bye! and hip hooray! when the shingles go on a holiday.
This ugly rash came in a flash, popping up on my skin with pain akin to a constant pricking pin, settling in for their din, din, din. How in hell did it begin? Is it meant as punishment for an evil sin, to purge me from the urge to surge again into forbidden territory. This is my sad, sad sorry story.
When I was just a little squirt I hurt from measles and chicken pox. No, I wasn't allergic to cream cheese and lox or sucking dirty sox, I wasn't coming out of retox or some pockypox. It was the after effects one expects of childhood diseases that displease, but do good like they should to cleanse the blood of cantankerous crud. It usually happens when you reach eighty, give or take, whether you've been on the make with a lady or vice-a-versa or even worsea.
The undesired virus lies in wait to end its hibernating state and strike anew at you no matter what you do. So it decided to take its rest in the muscled mass of my chest until the moment it chose to strike like a porcupine on an assembly line.
So came my shingles in a single swoopidie doop. It's a force that must run its course. One thing's for sure, there is no cure, not even from a double dose of grandma's chicken soup.
This ugly rash came in a flash, popping up on my skin with pain akin to a constant pricking pin, settling in for their din, din, din. How in hell did it begin? Is it meant as punishment for an evil sin, to purge me from the urge to surge again into forbidden territory. This is my sad, sad sorry story.
When I was just a little squirt I hurt from measles and chicken pox. No, I wasn't allergic to cream cheese and lox or sucking dirty sox, I wasn't coming out of retox or some pockypox. It was the after effects one expects of childhood diseases that displease, but do good like they should to cleanse the blood of cantankerous crud. It usually happens when you reach eighty, give or take, whether you've been on the make with a lady or vice-a-versa or even worsea.
The undesired virus lies in wait to end its hibernating state and strike anew at you no matter what you do. So it decided to take its rest in the muscled mass of my chest until the moment it chose to strike like a porcupine on an assembly line.
So came my shingles in a single swoopidie doop. It's a force that must run its course. One thing's for sure, there is no cure, not even from a double dose of grandma's chicken soup.
posted by Ed Weiland at 9:02 AM
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