It's Cold Inside

Because it's poetry month . . . 

From this spell of cold and damp,

The germs in close formation, tramp,

On my resistance, blithely stamp,

And place my head inside a clamp.

These foes, I did incarcerate,

And I shiver as I, here, relate:

While hoping to ameliorate,

Oh, woe, I did deteriorate.

Companions, mucus and some phlegm,

From deep within my system, stem,

Their presence here, I do condemn,

I want no close rapport with them.

I reach for some meds and groan,

My horrid fate I do bemoan,

And for all my sins atone,

And pray that soon I’ll be alone.

Then I think a sharpened knife,

Will quickly end my woeful life,

And my existence, hereto rife

With pain and suffering and strife.

Then, all at once, my life is blessed,

The germs are gone, the rheum expressed,

And all discomfort’s been suppressed,

It’s peaceful, now, within my breast.

Cheerily, from my bed, I climb

And wash away the sweat and grime.

My life is good, my soul sublime,

At least until the *sigh* next time.