Parched Tantalus
stretched far for fruit
to quench his thirst.
Gods got there first,
snatched every branch,
and when he spied
a pool below,
it drained, became
unreachable
like cures we hope
will work but won't.
Prometheus
provoked their ire
by stealing fire.
For their revenge
the gods arranged
long liver pecks
(like needle checks
for Methotrex-
ate side effects).
Gods also mocked
strong Sisyphus.
His push-up rock
always amused,
as we Ps do,
repeating meds,
some 'til we're bruised,
and on our spots
the daily goo.
Our skins don't bore.
Cracked reds and pinks
absorb gods for
a day or more.
Catch their broad winks
when any score.
They like their games.
They seldom snore.
|
When joints inflame
and scalps build up
in crusty piles,
and nails fall off
like broken tiles,
gods place the blame
on us. Insane!
They then perfect
attacks we dread,
add to their art
more ugly fun.
From head to heart,
they're never done.
Who doesn't wish
psoriasis
were but a myth
that we could kiss
goodbye with pith-
iness and wit,
but gods prevail.
If only they
would stop their play
with skin and scale,
revoke their jokes
(so long, so stale),
and lead us to
the P-cure grail. |
Jul
2007 | briefing |
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