Here's a prescription from the Doctor
That addresses with candor,
The problem you possess;
A cure for your endless distress.
Pink pills and red ones to be taken at once
Perhaps with water or liquor by choice.
Just swallow them down with a grimace
And you'll be able the problem to face.
If you miss a dose as intended
Your problem's compounded.
Better to take them pink then red
For the reverse will be a problem to dread.
For then you'll be plagued with writer's revenge
When there is a tingling and a poetry binge.
Words will gush forth without much ado
And there is little that you can do.
When paper and pens are all out
The computer's use will continue the rout.
Of course the problem is, dear Debbie,
The Doctor's own writing, you see
Is in Latin with many a medical term
That would make a Tequila worm squirm.
Doc's afflicted with another writing disease
It's billing the customers as much as he please.
So he can retire to his island in the sun
Where he'll ignore the misery of one.
Oh, yes. He forgot to tell you that there is a cure
Of the malady that you endure.
Your use the Internet for days unended,
Has your problem compounded.
As your mind grows fertile from the cursor moving there
And words come freely as if from the air
They encroach on the white space and in a straight line
As if they are intended to make good rhyme.
Turn off the computer and ignore the phone bill
For that's what has been making you ill.
Then at life's end you'll see
That nothing is actually — free.
Sidi J. Mahtrow
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/debbie-bennett-s-terrible-disease/
