Oh, misery! The fever's got me.
I'm as sick as I can be.
I still must turn out this poem for thee.
It started like a knife in my throat.
And then I got chilled and that's all she wrote.
It was my post-nasal drip attacking me.
The fever rising up in every swollen cavity.
Pressure like my brain would burst.
Ugly down my throat and a great thirst.
Until I was sneezing and gagging and such.
You never saw such a miserable wretch.
Trying to write this poem for you.
With burning eyes and brain askew.
My thoughts, like dreams, flying about.
Collecting them together, I struggle and doubt.
Though it all, this poem is born.
But I'll stay miserable until the dawn.
Did I write it down?
Copyright 2001 © Ronald W. Hull