Nostril Poem by Tin Can

I was thinking of you today.
'In what way? ' I hear you say.
Oh. Just in one of your loving pose.
You know. Where you're picking your nose.
With concentration intense,
Putting up with no nonsense.
Little fingernail at the ready,
To do your nostril injury.

Ouch. It hurts a little.
And the sound it makes is so, so brittle.
And all the edges, you can feel.
But the stubborn scab just won't peel.
So, with great determination,
Millimetres of extra insertion,
A deft flick and it's curtains,
For that scab. It's certain.

'Nosebleeds were plenty,
With no degree of certainty,
As to when they'd appear,
To my dread and to my fear.
So to the nurse I was sent.
With my parents consent.
And a hot probe she imposed,
Cauterizing my nose.'

'This you will find,
Is the history behind,
The little confusion,
Over my nasal intrusion.
And the scab that's remain,
Doesn't hurt. I have no pain,
I just have this annoying habit,
Where, at times, I just want to grab it.'