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For Tennyson, who says it isn’t a real poem unless it rhymes.

There was once a 9-year-old kid
Whose stomach decided to rid
Itself of its contents
Under the pretense
Of denying itself, so it did.

There once was a boy fair and jolly
Who snuck a lick of his friend’s lolly
But he caught the flu
And then you-know-who
Regretted his action, by golly.

And my first attempt, which rhymed, but not much else…

You are stuck on the couch

Your stomach is sick

Beside you is the bucket

Feels like it won’t end
Poor friend

Have another soda