I find when I am feeling spent
And hardly what you’d term a prize,
That some MD, with a gander at me,
Concludes that I need exercise.
But when I’m fine to excellent,
With every muscle crammed with zest,
He frowns at my vim, reverses him,
And tells me what I need is rest?
The net result? What could be surer?
I’m miserable, and ten bucks poorer.
by Ray Romine Saturday, May 5, 1951
