You’ll always find Roo in his cove –
this cousin of the slithy tove –
congested, rheumy, reddened eyes:
so used to feeling bad, he lies
in some perversity of peace –
so long familiar with the least
of luck with any kind of health –
(not to mention – lord knows! – wealth)
he’s rather learned to like it: thick
with aches, a mild fever, sick
with vagaries that can’t be told.
I come to him when I’ve a cold –
I try to follow his example –
let the misery be ample –
cough, compare our ills, and whine –
till secretly we're almost fine.
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