Death Warmed Over
by cricketjeff on February 9, 2011. © Jeff Green, All rights reserved
Every winter there’s a virus that can turn your brain to mush
That rolls out down your hooter all the time,
While your head is busy pounding and your chest coughs up a gush
Of disgustingly unpleasant sticky slime.
Though you feel like death’s a let-off you just cannot fall asleep,
And the pipes won’t clear for breathing so you need a chimney sweep.
When the first effects have passed you, you’d assume you’d feel relief
But your joints will ache and grumble without end.
Now your sense of humour’s parted with a most unfriendly thief
And your sanity has pedalled round the bend.
There’s a nasty cheerful doctor who says “No, it’s just a cold”,
So you feel a little pleasure planning how he won’t get old.
If you happen to recover, yes I know you know you’ll die,
Then your friends will all ignore your tale of woes
They’ll assume that you were slacking (face-it work DOES make you shy)
Though the evidence is clear, a blood red nose.
But you’ll soon be feeling better, when you’re back up on your feet
And your friends believe they’re dying, schadenfreude’s always sweet
English