Nose Picking Poem by Phil Soar

My mother said that if I picked my nose my head would cave in
My brains would drop into the gap created
By all the finger picking and that craving
To poke around in somewhere complicated

“You must not pick your nose the way you do son
Your finger might get stuck and then you’ll see
It was not worth the poking out the hard stuff
Just leave it son, and it will all run free”

I’ve always thought she maybe was student
Of all things nasal and related trite
She used to watch me as I slept, just checking
If I might have picked my nose all through the night

I wondered if she had a pile of bogeys
She’d taken from my bed as I lay sleeping
As dried up snot was lying on my pillow
After I had leaked while I was dreaming

At least my head is almost still as solid
As when I was first told that it would crush
It seems my days of nose picking have saved me
From turning into seeping snot and mush