Dear Mr. Wood,
Thank God half-term's over, I silently cheered,
And then a pyjama-clad figure appeared,
With florid complexion and feverish brow,
"Oh no!" I thought. "Just my luck! What's he got now?"
"My head hurts!" he said, voice laden with sorrow,
"My throat's dry! I'm ill, can I stay home tomorrow?"
Yet, two hours ago, this very same lad,
Had been bursting with health and driving me mad.
Thermometer poised, I read in due course -
"One hundred and three" and was filled with remorse.
So, I dosed him with Calpol and put him to bed,
With a compress, to soothe his hot, little head.
There, he languished next day, no better, no worse,
Whilst I pounded the stairs, playing housemaid and nurse.
The cure he'd conceived for his illness was drastic,
Being total abstention from pursuits scholastic,
Whilst comics and junk food and constant T.V.
Seemed to soothe and to heal, and the outcome, you see,
Is - now that he's better, and over his "do",
Restored to good health, it’s over to you
Best wishes,
Maggie Smart
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