It's Pain O'clock; Do You Know Where Your Tumours Are?

Good morning, it is pain o'clock,

do you know where your tumours are?

Ones that fester, ones that rock

and beg a Cheech and Chong cigar?

They're in each arm and in my neck,

in both legs and abdomen,

underneath each mighty pec

(or were mighty way back when).

They give me grief during the day,

but when the night is still and quiet

is the time they like to play

in a game becoming riot,

but that's OK, I live the dream,

and Barb will come out when I scream.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is WORK, which I really try to avoid.

Cancer's sure a lot of work,

like digging ditches in the cold,

but it has an awesome perk,

namely, that I won't grow old

and have the honoured hoary head,

grandkids sitting on my knee.

Yeah, it's better to be dead,

than, by far, to come to be

an elder and wise ancient sage,

a pillar of the street and village,

'cause I'm stuck upon the page

that is marked, 'Let's loot and pillage!',

which example, I will bet,

ain't fittin' for the younger set.

Three minutes flat. That might not be good.

I was really reluctant to post this; not because it's exaggerated (it's not), but because it verges on Poor Poor Pitiful Me.

And that's not the case at all. Yes, I've lost a ton of ground in the past few weeks, yes, I spend a lot of time bent double, just trying to get to the next moment, and yes, there are screams in the night (a perfect horseshoe of pain, from the pancreas into the neck and thence to the right humerus.

I don't do medicinal cannabis, nor painkillers of any type, for various reasons. It's not a path I would necessarily recommend, but it works for me.

But life is still good, and I am blessed beyond measure by Barbara, the dogs (and the cat), by sunrises and rainbows and shooting stars.

And I am blessed by YOU, my dear, dear readers. Your presence, and your comments, these keep me going.

You give me purpose, and I will tell God about you.

Do please take the sonnets above as reality's chiaroscuro, the shadow that defines the Light.

Music from Bobby Sherman, with Easy Come, Easy Go

As long as there's ice cream, Sylvia's cool with things. Me, too. Except that Edy's discontinued French Silk!