Ah-choo!
Uh-oh.
Ah-CHOO!
Oh no.
Have a seat on my bed, if you would, Mom and Dad.
’Cause I have some news to relate, and it’s BAD.
Sick? No, I wish. I’m not sick. I’ve been CURSED,
and I’m basically DOOMED, and it can’t be reversed.
This happened to Rohan, from school, last December.
First sneezing, then poof! He’s a frog—you remember?
The only faint glimmer of hope that we’ve got
are swamp grasses grown in some dark, swampy spot,
which we’ll harvest at quarter past twelve on the dot,
then mash up with pig hearts we’ve left out to rot.
This we crush into a powder, then mix in a drink
with bat bile and snake blood and India ink.
Then I’ll drink it, roll over, and stand on my head
while you sprinkle candle wax over my bed.
Then we get a chicken and feed it a—Yes?
The doctor?
Well, sure, we can try it, I guess.