The Stubbed Toe That Wasn't

So it seems as if my body is hinting that it might be time to get out of the jungle. A false stint with scabbies, and then actually getting scabbies (I think,) and the recent removal of what seems to be known as a nigua, or a small bug that lives in pigs and plants itself in humans top my recent laundry list of ailments. Lovely, I know. Better yet, it lays eggs. Fortunately, my friend here made several strong comments and made me ashamed. Later that day I went to the health clinic to see que onda (what's up?) This poem is the result of that visit.

The Stubbed Toe That Wasn’t

When walking with a friend of mine from her village to another,
She asked if I had stubbed my toe,
I said she needn’t be my mother.

The toe hadn’t crossed my mind, but the thought had entered quick.
And when I tried to let it go,
The thought managed to stick.

Days went by and just by chance the thought I’m glad to say,
Left me lonely,
Afterall, the thought had gone away.

But a few more days had come to pass,
“What’s on your toe?”
Friends began to ask.

Unfortunately as fast as the thought had gone away,
To me it seemed to look
As if the thought was back to stay.

There’s a little black dot that’s set up shop on the tip of my toe,
A squatter that pays no rent,
It was decided time for the dot to go.

What could it be? Where did it come from? How can I rid me of it?
Dried blood, an ulcer, or nothing at all?
I’d begun to throw a fit.

To the clinic I went to resolve my worries and they asked if I was ready?
Off with the toe they told me at once,
Will chop it with the nearest machete.

When all was finally said and done and rest put to the bother
Eggs and mama bug were extracted from the toe,
And I am now a happy father.