The itch begins, it calls your hand,
You scratch and think, "this feels so grand."
But pleasure fades, the fire relights—
A loop of need, you cannot fight.

 

The scratch feels sweet, but soon it burns,
Each stroke will make the itch return.
Inflamed and raw, the skin will pay,
Though briefly soothed, won’t stay that way.

 

Itching’s a bitch, rubbing’s the fix,
Trade fire for calm with gentler tricks.
Itching’s a bitch, rubbing’s the fix,
A rubbing touch, not frantic picks.

 

A voice beside me, soft but wise,
Said, “Rub it, Dwight. You’ll be surprised.”
I tried her way — it felt less bold,
But peace, not fire, began to hold.

 

The urge to dig began to wane,
The rub still soothed without the pain.
And science backs what touch revealed—
A quiet art, no wound need heal.

 

Itching’s a bitch, rubbing’s the fix,
Trade fire for calm with gentler tricks.
Itching’s a bitch, rubbing’s the fix,
A rubbing touch, not frantic picks.

 

Not every itch will need this rule,
Some fade with just one scratch, so cool!
But when it loops, don’t feed that flame—
Just rub, and peace will stake its claim.

 

Itching’s a bitch, rubbing’s the fix,
Trade fire for calm with gentler tricks.
Itching’s a bitch, rubbing’s the fix,
A rubbing touch, not frantic picks.