Carbuncle on the Knuckle

Walk through the forest, and I get a Larch splint
Buried in my finger, and it's really far in.
It's made quite a large hole, and yet I can't pry it.
I need some peroxide, with which I can ply it.

Lyme ticks are lingering in the shadows,
But I'm more worried about getting some bad growth:

Carbuncle on the knuckle—a pus ball to blight me.

I tried to don a rubber glove,
To make the wound bacteria-free.
But there are dirt and germs everywhere.
They'll claw their way into the cut and start to fester there.

Tightness, pain already running up my shoulder;
Knuckle's burning—I wish it were colder.

Now my finger's exuding foam from the splinter—
Gotta get fast to doc, so I'll be a sprinter.

This carbuncle on my knuckle is really galling me.

I decide to take off the glove,
And pus snakes down my extremity—
Raging river of white corpuscles, past the
Elbow and drips into a lake in the grass.
I'm glad this is not someone's freshly mowed lawn.
My knuckle looks like the offal from a prawn.

I can't bite my knuckle—
Ah! Here's the doc's room.
He takes a look at the wound and quickly swoons.