Have you got a brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so?
And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That you’ve got a serious medical condition
And should go to the organ-doctor
To have it drained and flushed?
Then look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the hills,
And the bridges often go.
And later, in August it may be,
You’ll realize that it was dumb
Not to at least try some leeches
When you heard your chest sloshing so much.