“A dose will cure you,” Dad would say,
And we’d think, “Cure or kill?’
He dosed us up with turpentine;
He thought that it would heal.
“But I’m not sick!” we all would whine,
We’d plead and beg and cry.
“I know you ain’t!” he answered back;
“This here’s the reason why!”
A drop in water in a spoon
With sugar to kill the taste.
Our eyes would cross, our toes would curl
As we gulped it down in haste.
Twas rarely we were ever sick:
Good food, fresh air, sunshine.
It kept us well, but Daddy said
It was the turpentine.
copyright © 1998 by moleta ruth mccarter. all rights reserved.
Original photo of spoon by Georg Weinseiss
