A month gone I tripped on a stair;
I hovered a time in the air
Then tumbled with gravity
Down nature's great cavity
And landed balls o'er derrière.
My shoulder removed from its socket
(Such happens when fate opts to knock it);
Though spared a concussion,
My head played percussion,
The rhyme for which is--oh well, phock it!
I sit here, my arm in a sling,
Exuding my Pompey Bum bling;
My head bears tattoos
(Though it's really a bruise):
Of arms and my noggin I sing!
Here ends my precipitous rhyme;
All battery's succored by time.
Though it still hurts to move,
I shall soon find my groove:
I have fallen but hardly declined.