Yesterday I felt okay, today I’m feeling rather frail.
Went out on the lash last night and stayed up very late
watching The Singing Detective by Dennis Potter,
a televisual feast, but now I’m suffering for his art.
But my psoriatic arthropody is not a patch on his.
Health is a chimaera, so it doesn’t pay to tweak its tail.
Now I’m drinking ginger wine and wondering
whether to sing for supper or accept my liquid fate.