Awowch! I've got it sure!
It's worse than being run over by a team of wild horses.
Where it comes from no fellow can discover, and once you've got it, look out, for it sticks closer than a porous plaster.
That's the grippe.
Ever have it—then see here if this don't just describe your feelings to a dot. All keep quiet, please, while I tell how it throws a fellow worse than he ever went down in his football college days.
The little ballad is called "Please Bring the Ice;" or, "The Lay of the Last Lameback."
When your cerebellum's reeling,
And you have a creepy feeling,
And the pains are o'er you stealing
Like you'd stepped upon a tack;
When your neck is nearly breaking,
And your every bone is aching,
And a billion imps are making
Footprints up your cringing back;
When your head is madly jumping,
And your love of life is slumping,
And you're bumping and you're thumping
From your topknot to your feet;
When with fever you are burning
And the throbbings, oft returning
To the start, bring on a yearning
For a bucketful of ice;
When you thrash the bed and swear, too,
That there's nothing to compare to
All the achings you are heir to
That are anything but nice;
When you hurt from head to toe, sir,
And you draw the ice pan closer,
Then it is that you should know, sir,
That it's got you on the hip;
And for all your frantic wailing
You will have to keep on ailing—
For you've got the grand prevailing
Malady—and that's the grip!
It's the grip,
grip,
grip,
and it's got you on the hip!
You are home when it goes calling,
And you can't give it the slip;
You can howl, and kick and holler,
But you bet your bottom dollar,
That your pleading will be wasted
On the
grip,
grip,
grip!
My butcher has evidently grown weary of hearing complaints regarding the high prices of meat.