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An Ode To Allergies ©

Gordon Fjaelberg
Bridgend, Wales
1977

My right hand thumb will twitch
Just at the thought
Of home-made pies
And bacon, fried in fat.
It's uncontrolled, it's
Too fast to be caught;
A thesis yet
Has to be wrote on that.

To hear a churh bell toll
Will cause me grief;
My right leg rises slow,
Stiff as a board.
No medicine, so far,
Can bring relief,
Though it later falls,
Reverts of its own accord.

My whole left hand will
Tremble when I write,
The pencil draws designs,
Scuds round the page.
It leaps and hops
Then vanishes from sight;
As abstract art
My poems are the rage.

At the very merest hint
Of jellied eels
My ears will grow,
Attain tremendous size.
All body functions cease,
My blood congeals;
I fall as dead,
Emitting mighty sighs.



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