Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper,
As virtually everybody knows,
What's less well known and should be somewhat better,
Is that Peter Piper also picked his nose.
He excavated with his index finger,
He mined his nasal cavities quite deep,
He dug around and let his finger linger,
He even probed his nostrils in his sleep.
But though his Mother warned him of the danger,
Peter Piper was oblivious to harm,
He would pick his nose in front of friend or stranger,
And chew his bogies quite devoid of qualm.
Peter Piper's mum whose name was Beryl,
She tried to save her one and only son,
But Peter Piper would not heed the peril,
For picking noses can be endless fun.
She took him to the Doctor, who informed her,
That he'd rarely seen a case of this so bad,
“It's called rhinotillexomania,
I'm afraid your son is well and truly mad.”
So Beryl told her son that he was ravin',
And that if he didn't pull his finger out,
“Like as not your head will have a cave in,
Of that there's really very little doubt.”
But Peter Piper disbelieved this theory,
He thought it would be easy to debunk,
For his habit kept him occupied and cheery,
So he continued the unpacking of his trunk.
One day when Beryl went upstairs to wake him,
She found Peter Piper permanently dead,
For just as she had sadly often warned him,
There was nothing left in Peter Pipers head.
So heed well Peter's cautionary story,
There are habits in this life you should avoid,
I'm sorry if you find this subject gory,
But your head should be full up and not a void.
Moderate nasal picking's-not an issue,
In fact it can achieve some modest gains,
Dispose your excavations in a tissue,
And don't, like Peter Piper, pick your brains.
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