sometimes, i wax poetic when i don't feel good. you can thank my sinuses for inflicting this on you.




i feel that i ought to compose
some poems & glorious prose,
for it stays in its place
& graces my face:
my lovely, high-functioning nose.

i have this bad habit, you see,
of liking, nay!, loving to breathe.
it has its own mind though
& loves to make me blow
in tissues & sometimes on sleeves.*

     *oh relax. yeah, it might be sick,
     but if you're running, you really can't pick
     what you're going to do
     when your nose runs too.
     you've no choice; get over the ick.

     so you wipe your snot onto your shirt;
     at least it cleans faster than dirt.
     it's better to stop it
     than blow a snot-rocket;
     that's just gross, i assert.

so as september starts to wear on,
& neighbors are cutting their lawns,
my nose starts to clog up.
& i sigh, "it's time, yup."
my freedom of breath is now gone.

my sends of smell rivals my dog's.
ndo, really, i swear i'm dot wrog.
i smell all the good stuff,
the bad stuff, the ndew stuff,
& old stuff that's beend out too log.

the thig is that i will get febers,
be laid up & have to watch leburs
on adibal pladet.
i just cadt stadd it
`cuz i sdeeze without a relieber.

yes, i adbit that i cab be a baby
whed by dose strikes, i cry, "baybe
there's sobode to care,
to bake soup & to hear
be whide; they have to be saidtly.

i dodt thig i should talk adybore
for by dose is widdig the war.
thags for listedig...
by sdot is dow glistedig...
forgive be as i start to sdore.