Samantha Cinderella Scott
 
 


by Kenn Nesbitt
 
   
Samantha Cinderella Scott
was told she’d have to have a shot.
The doctor said, “You’re somewhat sick;
I think a shot should do the trick.”

 

He said, “You shouldn’t feel a thing,
except perhaps a tiny sting,
a painless prick, a poke, a pinch.
It shouldn’t even make you flinch.

 

“You won’t begin to bleat or bawl.
I doubt that it will hurt at all.
I don’t expect to see it bruise
or swell your arm and start to ooze.

 

“There’s little chance of bellyaches
or fevers, chills, or sudden shakes.
It’s not supposed to cause a cough.
Your arm will likely not fall off.

 

“I’m guessing that there won’t be lots
of itchy red and purple spots.
Convulsions, too, are fairly rare.
I think you’ll get to keep your hair.

 

“In fact, the chance is nearly nil
that you’ll become intensely ill
or grow a ghastly greenish hue
or turn into a kangaroo.

 

“It’s nearly certain that you’ll not
become a fish or flowerpot.
I’m quite convinced it’s fair to say
you won’t turn into mush today.

 

“But if you start to shake and cough
or if your head should tumble off,
if you become a moose or mule,
you’ll get a day away from school.”

 

Samantha Cinderella Scott
took just a moment, deep in thought,
then yawned the slightest little yawn
and told the doctor, “Bring it on!”

 

Text © Kenn Nesbitt, published by Meadowbrook Press.

Illustration © Mike Gordon.

Any copying or use of this poem without consent is unlawful.

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