Hemophiliac Hemophiliac

It's time for a poem!  I've always believed that knowing a language's roots is important, both for learning new words and for making fun of the language itself.  I've chosen the latter path here.  Let the verse begin!

The hemophiliac hemophiliac

Was a poor old fellow.

He couldn’t be out in the sun,

Or get a bruise that’s yellow.

His problem was a big one,

As I’m sure you’ll soon see.

He loved to drink fresh blood,

But he lost it just as quickly.

Though riddled with a recessive gene,

A monster he still is.

After putting on a band-aid,

He’ll drink blood that is not his.

He avoids all those cuts and scrapes

As if they were the plague,

While innocent young peasants

Know his blood lust is not vague.

He is as old as pyramids,

And pale as the full moon.

To blood his loyalty does lie,

Its taste—he’s not immune.

Oh how he does love blood,

Its color, taste, and smells.

He starts to weep when he thinks

About his not right blood cells.

He lacks a strong clotting factor

So the fibrin cannot form.

His love of blood in either mode

Is way against the norm.

To compensate for his lost blood

He has to drink much more.

He can drink a whole gallon,

But out a wound it does pour.

A paradox this seems to be,

Quite the strange foreboding tale.

But don’t forget my dear old friend,

It’s more common for a male.

To bite or to bleed

Is a fifty-fifty toss.

Such is the so sad plight

Of a vampire with blood loss.