Bones

Poem By Walter de la Mare

Said Mr. Smith, “I really cannot
Tell you, Dr. Jones—
The most peculiar pain I’m in—
I think it’s in my bones.”

Said Dr. Jones, “Oh, Mr. Smith,
That’s nothing. Without doubt
We have a simple cure for that;
It is to take them out.”

He laid forthwith poor Mr. Smith
Close-clamped upon the table,
And, cold as stone, took out his bones
As fast as he was able.

Smith said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,”
And wished him a good-day;
And with his parcel ‘neath his arm
He slowly moved away.

Comments about Bones

Wonderful and entertaining poem
A nice write here...so nice to read as well
i wonder what brought this to the mind of mr. de la mare. smith's bones gone, i more expected him to flow rather than walk from the surgery—more like a puddle, no? -gk
Fun in rhyme and rhythm
Pain inside the bones, unbearable.. tony


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