Scorpion Hands

I knew once of a man with scorpion hands
Who would tickle the people he loved,
He was caring and sharing
And quite often daring
For sometimes he forgot to wear gloves.
On occasions, sensations
Would be felt and abrasions
Would sometimes be left on the skin,
But some people liked it
And a few would just try it
To check out the strength of the sting.
With his wife things were different
For one stab from his hands meant
She could keel over quickly and die,
And the thought of her dying
Would start him off crying
For he so loved the way she made pies.
But one day he was hasty
As she rolled out the pastry
And un-gloved as he crept up to tickle,
All he wanted were giggles
And to laugh as she wriggled
But he stung
And the sting left her pickled.
Not onion or gherkin,
Beetroot nor egg
Do I mean when I mention this word,
For when I say pickled
I mean that he tickled
His wife to a death undeserved.

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