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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4681 Registered: 11-1998 |
Poem of the Week Cold War Harolyn J. Gourley (a.k.a., Packrat) If I could get my hands around The neck of that infernal hound Who, spurning all civility, Inflicted this damn cold on me, Scant mercy would I show the wretch, No pity would their pleading fetch. Their cries would satisfaction bring As, vengefully, their neck I'd wring! Oh, miserable suff'ring I With red and teary, rheumy eye; My sinuses ne'er cease to run, And plugged-up ears that thump and hum; My upper lip -- red, raw and sore; My nose, distressed -- blown o'er and o'er. Like beaten dog, to bed I crawl, And vainly pray sleep conquer all. And, more's the pity, I won't die -- Eventu'lly, I will survive. Then woe to them that did the deed In passing on this fate to me. For when, at last, from bed I rise There'll be a blood-lust in my eye. Renewed, envigored, I'll not rest But, pass it on -- will you be next? |
