Ten little, dreadful things
crawled all up my insides.
Nine ugly, fat machines
prodded me from all my sides.
Eight buggers wiped me clean.
My naked body, lacking pride.
Seven nights it was, it seems.
Yet through time, nothing hides.
Six punctures to my spleen,
I couldn’t believe my own eyes.
Five thousand feet in air
or we maybe higher flew.
Four knives shaved all my hair,
‘gainst my protest, loud though few.
Three cold probes were stuck in there,
And now I am afraid to poo
Two big black eyes showed no care
and their hands lacked feeling too.
Once more, I’ll my protest air
simply to say, next could be you.