Sick Leave

I’m sorry you’re feeling poorly.
While I’m still feeling fine.
I guess I’ll get the bread and cheese,
Since I know you’ll bring the whine.

I’ve found for you the perfect job,
For every long, hot Texas Spring.
You could go and play in center field,
Since you always catch something.

You have a backyard garden,
With plants and herbs and ferns.
Yet, you only need a Petri dish,
What you grow best are germs.

I need to ask your height and weight,
I hope it’s not much trouble.
It’s just this year at Christmastime,
I’m buying you a bubble.

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