Sunburn

The itch begins at the red patches,
One each,
On the pair of pieds,
In a lovingly decorative pattern through the sandals.

The man looks down...
Shit.

BLS:
Boiled Lobster Syndrome.

The man  loudly complains,
Of the skin that is
definitely
going to blister.

He moans about the aftersun
he should have packed.
He lazily declines the Savlon,
kindly offered to him.
He wishes he'd stayed in the shade,
Or worn socks with those sandals.
The fashion police would have to just do one.

Finally, the man,
in his
AGONIZING
pain,
Calls to his mummy,
And orders her to put on the
Soo-oo-oothing ointment
previously offered.
The crustacean's friend.

She puts on the cooling creme
And the man sighs in relief.
And continues to moan.

For although I refer to him as a man,
As he should be at
25 years of age,
He is but a boy.

Aren't we all?

Maybe not the girls.