I have a disease called
I think it’s time I told it.
I’d love to help with that garbage can
But my fingers just can’t hold it.
Hand me a bag of groceries and
My wrists just turn to jelly.
Cuttin’ grass and hedges
Gives me flutters of the belly.
The smell of paint will make me faint,
Sweat makes my eyes start itchin’.
Dishwater on my little hands
Will start ‘em shaky-twitchin’.
Pickin’ clothes up off the floor
Would paralyze my shoulder.
I must not try to close a door,
At least not till I’m older.
So though I’d love to join the work—
Till this disease is done,
I’ll have to lie here in the shade
While you have all the fun.