Thaks for that, heathfield ... In honor of that knowledge, now comes a childhood poem:
Scabby Knees
Scabby knees! Scabby knees!
Can I pick them, can I please?
They�re so itchy, brown and scratchy,
Crusty, flaky and quite nasty,
Like burnt pastry on a pasty,
If I pick them Mum might catch me.
Scabby knees! Scabby knees!
Can I pick them, can I please?
Can I scratch them, can I pick them?
Can I pull bits off and flick them?
Scabby knees! Scabby knees!
I got them falling from the trees,
Onto the hard ground with a thud,
Playing games of Robin Hood.
My knees would be scab free they would,
If I�d fallen in the mud!
Scabby knees! Scabby knees!
Can I pick them, can I please?
Can I scratch them, can I pick them?
Can I pull bits off and flick them?
Scabby knees! Scabby knees!
Look like they�ve got a bad disease,
Crispy coated with dried blood,
Underneath there�s gunky crud,
I would ban them if I could,
Scabby knees are just no good.
Scabby knees! Scabby knees!
Can I pick them, can I please?
Can I scratch them, can I pick them?
Can I pull bits off and flick them?
(With thanks to Hel�n Thomas)