Cold, it touches under-tounge.
Silent, I hold still the inner young.
The rise of prismed mercury
Telling me if sick I be.
Palm of hand, the olden ways
Digital stick of future days.
Six and dozen, add four score
Decimal creep up more and more.
Climbing out towards centi-land
Twist and tilt to understand.
Flick of wrist, all evidence cleared
Hot, the verdict, as I had feared.
No comments:
Post a Comment