His drink it is Saline Pyretic,
He longs, but he shall not eat,
His soul is convulsed with emetic,
His stomach is empty of meat.
His bowels are stirred by blind motions,
His form in the flannel is bound,
He has gargles, and powders, and potions,
And walks as not feeling the ground.
For the doctor has harrowed his being,
And of medicine wondrous the might is;
He suffers in agony, seeing
He is prey to acute tonsilitis.