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Poem	The house grows sick in its dining room and begins to vomit. Father cries, the dining room is vomiting. No wonder, the way you eat, it's enough to make anybody sick, says his wife. What shall we do? What shall we do? he cries. Call the Vomit Doctor of course. Yes, but all he does is vomit, sighs father. If you were a vomit doctor you'd vomit too. But isn't there enough vomit? sighs father. There is never enough vomit. Do I make everybody that sick, sighs father. No no, everybody is born sick. Born sick? cries father. Of course, haven't you noticed how everybody eventually dies? she says. Is the dining room dying . . . ? . . . The way you eat, it's enough to make anyone sick, she screams. So I do make everybody that sick . . . Excuse me, I think I'm going to be sick, she says. Oh where is the Vomit Doctor? At least when he vomits one knows one has it from high authority, screamed father.
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