Glass of Water

A little glass of water, please. A fresh-pressed hanky if I sneeze. Some tea with honey from the bees. Whatever you can brew it. I'll get your tea. And while I get a little rest. A teeny tiny small request. Some codfish oil for my chest. Poured by a crystal cruet. My goodness, I'm a nincompoop. Because I fear I've got the croup. I need a vat of pumpkin soup and scarves made out of zinnias. Did I say zinnias? I mean silk. Or something shiny of that ilk. And then I'll need some nice warm milk. And pastries from Abyssinia. And since my stomach's feeling crummy. Why not give my aching tummy. Something soothing, something yummy. Piled up with noodles? Add a slice of homemade rye. With stacks of Swiss, way up high. Served with slices of sweet mince pie. More basil; I need oodles! I'll be grateful for your charity. Until the bitter end. Because I've heard that tenderness. Is what you lend an ailing friend. Tenderness, isn't that right friend? Right, but- . So who's ready for my big reprise? I'd like a glass of water, please. Some magic spell to cure disease. A firm "gesundhoof" when I sneeze. A fresh bouquet of roses. Some lozenges will soon appease. My wheezing when I start to sneeze. A wig to keep me from the breeze. And blankets for my toes-es. Take tweezers out of my valise. And then massage my knobby knees. A bowl of peas, some extra cheese. A cuddle with a Pekingese. A singing harp who's named Louise. A goat on skis, a new trapeze. And more and more and more and more of this. And just because I oughta. Make sure I'm drinking in the right amount of fluids. Day and night. I wish I may, I wish I might. Have just one little thing. Oh, would you please finally bring me that tiny glass of water?