When I am @3really@1 sick abed It isn't ever any fun. I feel all achey in my head An' hate to take my medisun. Th' sheets get stickyish and hot, But I am not allowed to kick 'Em off, er read, er talk a lot When I am sick. I hate fer all th' folks about To come an' pat me on th' face An' say, "Poor child, you'll soon be out," An' tiptoe all around th' place. They go when I pertend to be Asleep—I do it fer a trick: I don't like folks to pity me When I am sick. My mother's diff'runt—I don't care If she sits by me once er twice An' says, "Poor boy," an' smooths my hair; She ain't just tryin' to be nice. They bring warm squushy things to me Fer meals, an' make me eat 'em quick. I'm mis'ruble as I can be When I am sick. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO W.P.: 3 by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE INDIA WHARF by SARA TEASDALE PRIMROSE by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS TO A YOUNG BEAUTY by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS TO MY MYRTLE [MIRTLE] by WILLIAM BLAKE SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 20 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |