A Quadrennial Complaint
¶ 1
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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.
¶ 2
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Around her now quite matted head,
She whirled that teacup quickly,
Until she fell down on the bed,
Demeanour pale and sickly.
¶ 3
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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.”
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