This poem befits my mood these days. I am no longer allowed to eat any kind of meat, only seafood with fins; no crabs or prawns, no scallops or lobster.
|
|
My Wee Bout of Gout
I, yesterday woke with a wee bout of gout. The pain so intense, out loud I did shout. “Begone! Take a hike! Not on me, will you sprout. Get out! Yes, get out! You damned spot of gout.” Relief, I did seek, from a flagon of stout. Needless to say, my gout did not rout. So I tried a rare T-bone. It, too, had no clout. P’raps nothing could ease my wee bout of gout. To God, next, I spoke; Her interventions, divine. Asked, “What can you do to make me feel fine?” Said She, “You’re ridiculous. Move to sublime. Eat less meat! Drink less wine!” My dreams now shattered, I look for a sign. Her words understood. Must I now toe the line? And munch only salads, food suited to kine. What purpose life without meat, without wine? My lips, they do pucker when I eat Sauer-kraut. Neither Peter nor Jesus lived solely on trout. But don’t you despair! Be not in doubt! All this whining’s about is my wee bout of gout. |
