They both fell down the hill,
Urged up for water for drinking.
Down they surged, Jack took the worse fall--
Jill's black and blue.

They're not birds; they can't fly;
If, they could, they'd not be sinking
To the turf, curled up in a ball--
Hill-rolling crew

They got a bruise-stick in tumbling through roses, untrellised,
Then beat, sprained in hedgerows of brawny yews.

So they flopped all around,
Exacerbating thorns' stinging.
At the bottom, finally they stalled--
Jill felt Jack's crew.*

She asked, "Are you sick? Your rupture-full nose is like jelly!"
From peat-tainted head flowed a tawny-rouge.

There was blood all around,
Most of it from Jack's crown springing.
Major trauma to head in fall--
Jill's gonna sue. . .

Little Boy Blue.


*crew-cut