This knave would go sore
I’m riddled with pain like a rat is with fleas;
And yet I’m not ill – I don’t have a disease:
I’m simply disabled – it’s all in my neck –
But, bugger, it hurts: and I feel like a wreck.
No pill has an impact; no medicine helps;
And each time I move my poor body it yelps.
There’s no chance of sleeping with comforting dreams –
Only dark, spiky nightmares, riddled with screams.
All doctors can offer are ways I should cope:
Not proven solutions; or proffering hope.
I’m all on my own with my torment and hurt –
Descending so low that I’m left in the dirt.
So I form my own methods to deal with the aches:
A very large whisky; and a mountain of cakes.