My friend,
Are your humours askew?
Brought on by gossiping rats,
And flea-bites of rumours,
Call the plague doctor,
In all his ostentatious regalia,
And his avian mask,
He will soothe your soul,
You are a sick being,
Your soul is covered in buboes,
You spit bile and pus,
Your actions reek of necrosis,
Of rot,
You are a sick fool,
He’ll quarantine you from the worlds hurts,
His mask shall shield him,
From your ireful infections,
With juniper and rose scent,
Your spirit requires healing,
With his cane he will show you,
The way to healing,
Ointments and tinctures,
Of calming words,
He’ll blood-let all of your fury,
And all your bad thoughts,
Will be for the leeches,
He will remedy your aura,
You will be better,
Your humours rebalanced,
Your humanity restored,
The plague will pass.
WorldofHarley 