Summertime: Beachballs, Bathing Suits & Frilly Nails

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Fergus

A fungus lives
inside my
foot–
he says
his name
is Fergus.

He’s rude
he’s crude—
I hate this dude!
But, worst of all,
he will not move!
And when I
try to rout
him out,
he rears
his itchy head
and says:
“I’d vacate
in a minute,
Sir,
if I could
find
new shelter.
But I’ve
no other
place to
hide.
So stay
I must,
and swelter!”

My voice
grows shrill,
my tone is
short,
I cannot
keep
from screaming:
“My toe shack’s
packed,
my nooks
are booked,
my feet
are raw
and blistery.
So please
get out—
don’t make me shout—
I’m sick
of all your
witchery!”

“Don’t kid
yourself,”
he answers,
“your foot’s
no Grand Hotel—
it’s pink,
it stinks,
it sweats
and swells.
In summertime
it’s hot as h_ll.”

Oh, how I hate
this loathsome
lout.
How much
I want
to
oust him!
But nothing
works—
not soap
or steam
or gel
or cream.
A knife would
do the trick,
of course,
but at
too great
a cost:
because without
my dear, sweet feet
(no matter how infected),
I would not know
which way to turn—
and I would be
forever lost.

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