Mr. Allergy

Joseph has picked up a new habit of telling me he is allergic to anything he doesn't like or want to do.

E.g. "I'm allergic to pants."
"I'm allergic to washing my hands."
"I'm allergic to French class."
"I'm allergic to helping out."
"I'm allergice to long sleeves."
etc. etc. etc. 
(This post may be updated with future zingers.)

It reminds me of a poem by which I memorized in high school to recite to my English class.  My mother suggested it (I wonder why!). 
(And I couldn't remember more than the first stanza, but thanks to Annie, I got the full text.)
It's perfect for Joseph - if only he were old enough to get it... or does he?

Allergy Met a Bear by Ogden Nash

I heard them speak of allergy,
I asked them to explain
which when they did, I asked them 
To please explain again.

I found the pith of allergy
In Bromides tried and true;
For instance, you like lobster,
But lobster don't like you.

Does aspirin cause your eyes to cross?
Do rose-leavs make you nervy?
Do old canaries give you boils?
Do kittens give you scurvy?

Whatever turns your skin to scum,
Or turns your blood to glue,
Why, that's the what, the special what,
That you're allergic to.

O allergy, sweet allergy
Thou lovely word to me!
Swift as and heiress Reno-bound
I called on my M.D.

This doctor was obliged to me
For reasons I must edit.
(I knew he had two extra wives,
And neither did him credit.)

I spoke to him of allergy;
Perhaps I clenched my fist;
But when I left his domicile
I had a little list.

I can't attend the opera now,
Or sleep within a tent;
I cannot ride in rumble seats;
My allergies prevent.

Oh, garden parties speed my pulse
And pound my frame to bits;
I'd mind the child on Thursdays,
But children give me fits.

When Duty sounds her battlecry,
Say never that I shirk;
It isn't laziness at all,
But an allergy to work.