Itch Me Not

Swollen ankles,
Restless nights,
Frustration at its key,
I tell you of my pains.

"Oh!" You voice,
Surprise on every feature,
"You're pregnant!"

I laugh:
Rust and silk combined.
For how can I not?
"Pregnancy?" – Ha! – "Not I."

The idea!
Why – looky 'ere,
I've lost my spleen.
Fallen right out at the thought.

For it isn't the joy,
Of a small bundle in a bloated belly,
But the annoyance of the itching.

Ohh, that dreadful itching:
It's you who looms in my closet.
It's you who lurks under my bed.

My wrists,
My ankles,
My calves,
My thighs!
Itch! Itch! Itch!

"Then… Wha-Huh?"
Your face shows nothing else.

My dear, dear friend.
"Don't you see?
It's only poison ivy."


If you didn't catch on, this was created in a complete and utter sarcastic way.

Hope y'all liked. R&R? Thanks.