My brother has
got
A spot on his
bot.
He finds it hard
To sit still.
I think he will
cry,
Maybe he’ll die,
If the spot he’s
got
Isn’t killed.
It’s not quite
As simple
As just
A wee pimple,
It’s so much
Hotter than
that.
It’s like an
Eruption,
Volcanic
corruption,
Wrapped up in
Parcel of fat.
I think
I would toil
To call it
A boil
It’s more like
A pustule,
A blain.
A cluster
Of pus
As big as
A bus
An infected
Packet of pain.
I know he’s
My brother,
And I haven’t
Another
To whom
Concern
I should show.
But it’s really
Quite funny
His bum will
Be runny
When the
Spot should
Finally blow.