Wholly Hole-y

SEVEN million little openings,

God has made upon your skin;

Mouths of tiny little sewers

That run everywhere, within.

And along these numerous sewers

All impurities must go,

That are not by other outlets,

Carried off with active flow.

When these many little openings.

We call PORES, get shut quite close,
/> Through your frame the poison wanders,

Making you feel dull and cross.

It will make your lungs grow tender,

And they'll soon be sore, and cough;

It will make your stomach feeble,

And your head ache hard enough.

Then your heart can not be joyous,

And your other organs, too,

Will get weak, and be unable

For the work they ought to do;

Quaking nerves will groan and quiver,

Weary bones be racked with pain,

And you'll all the time be saying:

"How can I be well again?"

HEAT and BATHING widely open

All the pores, when discords dire,

Quick flow out in perspiration,

Quenching all the fever-fire.

Raveling out the tangled tissues,

Setting free the life-blood's flow,

Pouring forth the pent-up poisons,

Wakening thus a healthful glow.