Head Wound

The carcinoma left a bullet hole
High on my forehead. It looked like a tap
By a pro hit-man. In fact the killer’s role
Was played not by a pistol-toting chap
But by a pretty female whose light touch
Sliced out the blob and pieced a flap of skin
Into the gap. It didn’t hurt that much.
When finally the pit was all filled in
A pink yarmulke of Elastoplast
Topped off the job. The whole thing happened fast.

The wound, alas, healed slowly, but the heap
Of duct-tape mercifully was replaced
By one neat bandage, though I had to keep
Changing it each second day. I faced
At least three weeks of wearing this square patch
And there were interviews for my new book
Demanding to be done. A tale to match
My rather daring James Bond sort of look
Seemed called for, so I mentioned MI5,
A mild gun battle. I got out alive.

No sooner did the first show go to air,
A dear old lady stopped me in the street
And said I really ought to take more care
In gun fights. I thought her a shambling dunce
But only for a moment. All the fault
Had been mine, for expecting that my smirk
Would flag the gag. Alas, there is a rule:
The straight-faced joke that might work on the page
Is death on TV. I should act my age.