Poems ✍️

. Brier Fever


Old Mac was a tough one, a proverbial son of a gun.
I swear he could wrestle a bear.
He was out in the forest and headed straight for us;
It happened before he got there.

The brambles and briers were tangled and higher
Than even Old Mac could displace.
We heard Old Mac cussin' an followed the fussin',
That's how we discovered the place.

Yes, I'm terribly sorry, I don't know the whole story;
‘Fraid we were too busy for that.
He'd a scratcxh on his thumb as he clutched at ‘is gun,
And, oh, what a sight as he sat.

Sez I, 'let me bandage the cuts on your arm
And bind up that ankle that's sprained.
The gash on your head has profusely bled,
I fear it may addle your brain.'

'Leave me alone, ' was all he would moan,
'Just help me locate my hat.
It's the scratch on my thumb that ‘as me undone.
I can stand anything except that.'

'Why, your foot is all mottled and twisted and turned;
Let's get you back to the car.
We'll get you a doctor, ' I exclaimed in concern,
'It's needin' repairin' you are.'

At hospital he sez, 'this doctor must be dizz.
I think this fellow's a quack.
It's the scratch on my thumb that ‘as me undone.
I can stand anything except that.'

They were there to relieve, so I took my leave;
The old boy was sure to repair.
But just yesterday his friend came my way;
His words were a shock, I declare,

'I'm sorry to say, Old Mac passed away;
We're fixin' to party his end.'
'Why, A cut here and there or a break's all I'd swear.
Must have been more serious, then? '

'Oh, they trussed him in bed, sewed the cut on his head;
They did a good job on the spat.
‘Twas the scratch on his thumb that had him undone;
They repaired everything except that.'



Written while hunting mushrooms when I had the
ill-fortune to get a thorn in my thumb.