Large beads of sweat rolled down her face,
Her brow was red and burning.
But still she kept that rhythmic pace,
Just turning, turning, turning.
Around her now quite matted head,
She whirled that teacup quickly,
Until she fell down on the bed,
Demeanour pale and sickly.
They called the doctor to decide
What treatment would relieve ‘er.
“I’m sorry, there’s no cure,” he sighed,
“You see, it’s Whirled Cup Fever.”