In the middle of my back I
feel the itch of an attack by
an annoying bitch mosquito
(which I guess still has to eat) so
watch the bulge distort my torso
like a molehill only more so;
wish I'd thought to take a photo
as I morph to Quasimodo--
just a hunch from Monsieur Hugo
to explain my bulging bubo
but my thoughtful diagnosis
isn't postural kyphosis;
no, my back grows a proboscis
and my sanity is lost 'cause
now I'm grunting like a proto-
lithic trog who's eaten toad or
found the magic of the mushrooms
makes his mutant back too much to
bear, so scratch! I swear the bump
will grow like Banner's bulk
beyond my shirt, this lump will
show its hulking hideous heinous
form, its aching itching gayness--
more than any man should suffer
(even if this man was tougher),
and the likeliest prognosis
is my hump's apotheosis,
to be swelling, all consuming
god-bump, hosting a small human...
so I beg you, quickly, quickly,
till my back is smeared and slick leave
no red wheal unturned or hacked, I mean,
Could you please scratch my back?


Ha, ha! That was great. Lots of brilliant words in there, and all, and the structure really added to the amusement value. More! More!

The Victor Hugo paired with bulging bubo really got me.