In tears, I told my general physician,
“What’s ailing me exhibits imprecision.
I touch my knee, and oh, it sorely hurts,
my elbows, too, which launches grievous spurts
of agony. And when I poke my cheek,
I have to inhale sharply and can’t speak.
Just look! I jab my amply-cushioned bum,
and torment like no other strikes me dumb.”
Arms crossed, my GP silently observed,
as next a lightly prodded ankle served
to put me in discomfort’s vice-like grasp
and drew from me another painful gasp.
The sharp-eyed man of medicine leaned back
and proved to be no snake-oil wielding quack!
Upon my symptoms, not long did he linger,
but said, “It seems you have a broken finger!”