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Possum
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IST 'ere it gripped me, on a sudden, like a red-'ot knife.
I wus diggin' in the garden, talkin' pleasant to me wife,
When it got me good an' solid, an' I fetches out a yell,
An' curses soft down in me neck, an' breathes 'ard fer a spell.
Then, when I tries to straighten up, it stabs me ten times worse.
I thinks per'aps I'm dyin', an' chokes back a reel 'ot curse.
"I've worked too fast," I tells Doreen. "Me back-bone's runnin' 'ot.
I'm sick! I've got—Oo 'oly wars! I dunno wot I've got!
Jist 'ere—Don't touch!—Jist round back 'ere, a blazin' little pain
Is clawin' up me spinal cord an' slidin' down again."
"You come inside," she sez. "Per'aps it's stoppin' in the sun.
Does it 'urt much?" I sez, "Oh, no; I'm 'avin' lots o' fun."
