Mummy tea, mummy soup, mummy hugs
My gift for being ill. Putrid pauses in-between sighs
Worried glances over your shoulder
Is the doctor here yet to take over
Your dutiful care now done
Whilst fingers recoil at my disease
Your lips kiss my eyelids to sleep
But you hold your breath
"We wouldn't want the germs to spread"
What if I vomit all over this bed mummy dear
What then
I preferred nanny pasties actually.