You may talk of heart and liver, Of the twins you did deliver, And the kidney stones that passed you in the night; But when it comes to itching, All your fingers will be twitching For the ointment that had better expedite.
Now in clinics in my prime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of the poor and all their kin; Why, the finest hours spent In that bleak environment, Were the ones that were devoted to the skin.
For it's skin! skin! skin! With your cellules claires and prickle cells so thin; Though you nourish, cool, protect us, Even cleanse and disinfect us, For your troubles all you get is glycerine.
If it's acne on the face, Or a gumma to erase, Keratoses, warts or nevi to excise; It's the skin that has to bear Every suture—every tear, While we hyfrecate it, burn and cauterize.
LITT JZ. Hunk o' Skin. Arch Dermatol. 1961;83(5):844–845. doi:10.1001/archderm.1961.01580110132019