Henry Sturgeon
Harry was in trouble, someone had burst his bubble, and he was down,
His heart was feeling like lead, he didn’t like what they’d said, hence his frown.
He felt like ranting and raving, didn’t bother shaving, went to bed,
And that’s where he would have stayed, grumpily laid, but for his Uncle Fred.
Fred took him to a surgeon, clever Henry Sturgeon, who worked on brains,
A man of many skills, used to certain ills, nasty negative strains.
He knew just what to do, he called for his lively crew, and vials of fun,
And before he started, the curtains were parted, which let in the sun.
Such made the room more cheery, the atmosphere merry, and work began,
Masterly jabs of humour, pierced Harry’s somber tumour; Henry’s plan.
Soon the tumour was shrinking, and Henry winking, very knowingly,
For laughter, with follow-ups after, helps return positivity.
Armed with witty potions, and comical lotions, Harry bade farewell,
His life looking brighter, his heart feeling lighter, he no longer ill.
Henry Sturgeon, the jesting surgeon, chose to leave Harry in stitches,
Knowing bouts of laughter, ever after, a person’s life enriches.
Harry’s no longer in trouble, naught bursts his bubble, nor gets him down,
His happiness beguiles, he’s full of beaming smiles, never wears a frown.
He loves to have lots of fun, is quick with a witty pun, wisecracks too,
And a career with Henry Sturgeon, the waggish surgeon, might pursue.
Yes, all thanks to Uncle Fred, who rescued him from his bed, thankfully,
For there he would’ve remained, mentally drained, just locked in self-pity.
But thanks to Henry Sturgeon, the slapstick surgeon, he was saved in time,
Hence Harry’s peals of laughter, from thereafter, that folk have ’oft heard chime.
Thus, whenever you’re feeling down, nursing a frown, remember Harry,
And visit Henry Sturgeon, the clever surgeon, and gladly tarry.
He’ll pierce your somber tumour, with his jabs of humour, smile with delight,
And in no time at all, his fun will enthrall, and you’ll be feeling right.
By Lance Landall
Don't Disturb!
Oh dear, what a sight, everything seems so higgledy-piggledy, topsy-turvy,
Yes, a right royal mishmash, hodgepodge, hotchpotch, jumble, clutter — mess, just quietly.
I’m totally bewildered, confused, at sixes and sevens, flummoxed, stumped, perplexed,
I’m all at sea, adrift, befuddled, muddled, muzzy, just can’t think of what to do next.
Oh well, I guess I’d better get out of bed.
On second thoughts, I’m dreadfully tired, I’ve no get up and go, oomph, zing, zest, zip,
I’m worn-out, drowsy, lethargic, ready to drop, and there’s a good chance I could slip.
Yes, I’m terribly fatigued, exhausted, wasted, I’m running on empty, dead beat,
I’m so under the weather, sapped, drained, strained, and the floor’s very cold on my feet.
I knew I shouldn’t have set the alarm clock.
Besides, it’s a crazy world out there, so unpredictable, dicey, treacherous,
I’d be taking a huge gamble, a leap in the dark — I think it’s too dangerous.
I might get flustered, ruffled, rattled, bothered, exasperated, even lose control,
And there’s a chance I could get bumped, thumped, pushed, poked, kicked, scratched, chased,
cursed, fall in a hole.
Yes, I’d be far better off staying in bed.
Oh dear, just the thought of it all is making me feel nauseous, somewhat queasy,
And now that I think of it, I’ve been feeling rather off-colour just recently.
I think I must be coming down with something, I’m feeling quite faint, weak at the knees,
And something’s tickling my nose, irritating my throat — and did I just hear a wheeze?
That settles it! Could you turn the light off please?
By Lance Landall
