Herbert Nehrlich

Rookie (04 October 1943 / Germany)

The Scotch Cure - Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

It's treponema pallidum
a tiny, sly and viscious pip
it lives in front or near the bum
and once you take a little nip
of what is known as fornication
both warmth and moisture pave the way
thus pathogens get validation
they settle in, intend to stay.
A smallish sore that will not heal
will soon appear upon your shaft
at first you think, 'well, no big deal',
then comes the time when no one laughed
as full-blown lues has now squatted
and treponema starts to travel
the time that Nature has allotted
is still enough to let unravel
your life and health, it's a disease
that does not care about your standing
it makes you sick and ill at ease
you praise the doctor as he's handing
you a syringe with penicillin
though only touches you with glove
you see the needle but are willing
to let him aim and quickly shove
it in your upper outer cheek
from where it wanders off at speed
throughout you bloodstream, there to seek
all damaged cells, they are in need
of therapeutic intervention
and in the end when you've endured
this modern medicine attention
you will in only days be cured.

But will you learn from this disaster
when next the urge gets to your crotch
perhaps the words from your own master
should be considered, have a Scotch.
The reasons being that the liquor
will occupy your horny mind
will fire up and warm your ticker
while other parts relax you find
that leaning back inside your chair
is far less worry and less work
if for your health you truly care
just have a few, don't be a jerk
no bugs will come inside you thus
and those that may have slipped inside
will be discouraged, that's a plus
remember, Scotch will save your hide.

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, June 25, 2005



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