Letter: Poetically thankful
There once was a man named O’Sullivan who drove a fine, shiny truck.
When all of a sudden he passed a lass who was a little down on her luck.
The lass had fallen and slipped on the ice,
and rather than pass O’Sullivan was nice.
Not at her best she accepted his token,
and between laughing and crying admitted she was broken.
O’Sullivan had not had the pleasure of her company before, and proceeded to push the gas pedal to the floor.
Around the S-curves they swerved and diverted,
through the roundabout they sped while the lass cried “she hurted.”
Upon arrival at the ER he escorted her through the door,
and bid her adieux, “can I do anything more?”
I am fine with a pill, the bill and a cast.
In a short six weeks this too shall pass.
Thanks again for the ride, Mr. O’Sullivan.
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