I’ve had broken bones
And kidney stones;
Had migraines wrack my brain
I’ve been cut; I’ve been burned,
And eventually learned
That it doesn’t help much to complain.
I’ve got scars I can trace
Where a dog bit my face
(Well, there’s really no good place to bite us)
Ah, but son of a bitch,
I just can’t stand the itch
Of this damned contact dermatitis!
In the “true tales from the life of Cuttlefish” files, I am going nuts! My hands are shaking with the effort of not scratching (which effort fails miserably), and I can think of nothing but the itching. I want to take a belt sander to my torso, and I think amputating my arms at the shoulder is worth considering. Yes, I’ve called the doctor.
Oh, and all the stuff in the verse is true. The dog was a german shepherd, and it was going for my throat while its owner pulled it back, so it only bit my face. Sitting here, itching, that seems like the good old days.