I fear that I, by bruising my coccyx,
Have found a way to magnify my pain.
And if I could, believe me, I'd refrain
From injuring that place. I'd rather mix
A drink from Lethe and the muddy Styx
And drain it down, than distressingly sprain
The part of me that follows in my train
To which my torso and my legs affix.
Yet since I have, I must persever so
And hope that it will not recur again.
Each time I sit, I cringe; but do not pity me.
That pain is temporary, I well know,
And when it heals - and yes, it is a when -
I smile to think how happy I shall be.
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