Vengefully, that neck I would wring,
pained cries would satisfaction bring,
pleading and begging would no mercy fetch
no pity for the rancid wretch,
if only I could get my hands around
the throat of that infernal hound
who, without a crumb of civility,
inflicted this damned cold on me!
Like a whipped dog, to bed I must crawl
and pray vainly for sleep to conquer all;
the sinuses that never cease to run,
the plugged up ears that throb & hum,
that upper lip - sore, red and raw,
my poor nose – stuffed with baling straw,
the teary red, and rheumy eye,
oh what miserable suffering have I!
And, mores the pity, I won't die -
even though I might like to try,
eventually I will survive,
though the bacteria will always thrive.
Oh, woe to whom passed this on to me
I hope to return this plague to thee,
and you there, who watch me sorely vexed
I must pass it on, will you be next?
©2012 Christopher Reilley
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