Sporty Marty

Sporty Marty, out playing ball,
Bouncing and skipping off ground and wall,
As the game becomes boring,
Into the house Marty comes roaring.

“My arm’s broken and hurts!” He weeps,
Smudges off tearful face sweeps,
Mommy and Daddy anxiously race,
Marty’s “broken” arm to face.

No swelling nor cut, no bruise nor abrasion,
They inspect his arm with concerned invasion,
Though Marty claims severe pain,
Mommy and Daddy are looking in vain.

To er they rush the wailing child,
And there he becomes increasingly wild,
Heartbreaking shrieks to Marty’s side steer,
One, two and three doctors who over the “broken” arm peer.

Each probe invites new whimpers and groans,
Runny-nosed, Marty dramatically moans,
Doctors examine and confirm their doubt,
While Marty continues to squirm about.

Prudently, doctors suggest an X-ray be taken,
Of the arm which they suspect not “broken,”
The image proves what doctors already see,
Marty’s “broken” arm is well as can be.

To appease Marty and his unharmed appendage,
Doctors wrap it with a big white bandage,
The unbroken arm is taken home in a dressing,
While Marty’s grunts are continually pressing.

Soon the three arrive home with relief,
End of my story is beyond belief,
Upon entering front door of the house,
Marty grabs the ball quietly as a mouse.

Swiftly he unwinds the big white wrapping,
Rendering his parents helplessly gapping,
Once again, Sporty Marty is out playing ball,
Bouncing and skipping off ground and wall.