Oh, misery!  The fever's got me.

I'm as sick as I can be.

I still must turn out this poem for thee.

Oh, misery! 

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



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