An Herbalist's Misfortune

by Raeven of Dark Ages

I cannot make you potions,

no matter what you pay.

Nay, I won't go near that glade

no matter what you say.

Picking flowers gives me hives,

I choke and gasp and sneeze.

Just one glance at betony

and I begin to wheeze.

See this scratchy, awful rash

that covers me complete?

I contracted it from herbs,

so I admit defeat.

You say there's a cure for me?

Then tell me, don't delay!

. . . I need to find hydele?

You scoundrel! Go away!