It takes a lot of scrubbing to get shed of poison ivy

Here is another hillbilly poem based on my real life as an Ozarker.
Despite our poor soil, we grow a lot of brush and that includes a lot of poison ivy. The only thing good I can say about it is that it is colorful when the leaves change in the fall.
In summer, though, it makes me miserable. Usually, when I get a case of it, I go to the doctor and get a shot or a series of pills to take. My wife says those medicines are hard on my insides, so she took over when I got a case of the ivy this summer.
The misery inspired me to versify up this gem, that I hope you enjoy.


IT TAKES A LOT OF SCRUBBING
TO GET SHED OF POISON IVY
Been clearing brush from fence rows over at my place
and now I’ve got poison ivy on my arms, legs and face.
And that stuff makes my skin crawl and itch,
and when I say itch, I mean like a son of, uh--which
brings up the treatment figured out by my wife,
an earth mother-type, who’s loved herbs all her life,
so much that she went to college, you see,
and worked hard enough to earn a master’s degree
in agriculture, with a horticulture focus.
Now she’s working some folk medicine hocus-pocus
on me. She prescribed scrubbing with soap,
yes, Dawn dish soap, and that will work, I hope,
to cut the acid of the ivy oil. Plus, she says, pine tar
soap will also work, so she gave me a bar
of that stuff and another one made from jewel weed,
and, in a bow to modern medicine, Benedryl, with my nightly feed.
She also found in her medicine bag jewel weed spray
that she claimed would soothe my skin night and day.
Well, it all seemed to work, it sure cut down the itching
so maybe there’s something to her herbal treatment witching.
Now the truth has dawned on me like turning on a lamp. It
is clear as day to me now: I married Granny Clampett!