Oh, it's a shame for a girl of your vim,
To lie abed, victim of a doctor's whim.
You should be outdoors vigorously playing hockey -
Instead of playing host to a throatful of streptococci.

Beware the physician, for oft is his whimsey
To diagnose your condition as far advanced quinsey.
It is a physician's resort, an act of sedition
That he suffers from a dry scalpel condition.

When I was young, mother had her problems, too with me.
I had your shortcomings, in allergies, you see,
Penicillin and the like, gives you hives and the blotch.
Take my mother's prescription, a fifth of good scotch.

So, rest well this weekend, and sick or not, Monday
You'll come back to us, after resting on Sunday.
As a treat, you may sing off-key and wear your dark blinkers -
And Hatrak will accompany you with a background of clinkers...

The boys home from prep school were all snug in their beds
While visions of Marilyn danced in their heads.
And mater in her Bergdorf and I in my Saks
Lay in Louis XIV (with its genuine cracks).

When up in the penthouse, there arose such a clatter
I summoned the butler to see what was the matter.
He ran through the room in a forty yard dash
And pulled the venetians I'd bought with cold cash.

The moon on the sidewalks of chic Sutton Place
Gave the color of liver to the old doorman's face.
When what to my wond'ring eyes did appear
But a Mercedes Benz pulling up in high gear!

With a little old driver, so lively and quick
I knew 'twas the chauffeur of jolly Saint Nick!
More rapid than allards, his convertible came
And he whistled and shouted and called it by name.

Now stupid! Now junk-heap! Now bucket of bolts!
On trash-can! Go taxis! (those drivers are dolts!)
Look out for the porch! Look out for the wall!
We'll get up this hill unless'n you stall.

As pedestrians that before taxis and buses do fly,
He hit a poor cop and knocked him sky-high.
So up to the duplex, the convertible flew
With a trunk full of toys and St. Nicholas, too.

And then in a twinkling like a fast-driving heiress,
He slammed on the brakes and crashed on the terrace!
As I drew on my homberg and was turning around
Down the fake fireplace, Santa came with a bound!

He was dressed all in cashmere from his head to his foot,
"Abercrombie and Fitch" was stamped on each boot.
He had a Hathaway shirt and was looking quite "dudie"
As he took genteel puffs on a meerschaum kaywoodie.

He wore a Cavanaugh hat and bright argyle socks
And the fur on his suit was ermine, not fox.
His beard was white mink -- a right jolly old elf
And I laughted at his spats, in spite of myself.

But a look at his tie (silk shantung and all red)
Made me giddy and I wished that I'd stayed back in bed.
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work
And drove the caterer from Sardi's fairly berserk.

He ate like a demon as he trimmed up the tree --
(Canapes of caviar and imported tea!)
Into a fine, linen hanky he blew his nose,
And sucked in his tummy as up the chimney he rose.

His chauffeur and steno (a lovely young dame)
Came forth as he whistled and called them by name.
"Come, Thurmond, my chauffeur and Pamela, with bells!"
And they pirouetted to him like two Sadlers Wells.

He saw me and hollered ere he whizzed out of sight --
"I'll bill you next month for my labor tonight!"