Aaachooooo
As the autumn and winter seasons inexorably unfold,
You can bet that I'm destined to catch my annual cold!
I've tried every remedy from the local pharmacist's shelf,
Includin' syrups, lozenges, even toddies to cure myself!
My nothe ith all thopped up an' I can hardly respthire.
My lungths are congesthed - they feel like they're afire!
My eyeths are red an' thwollen an' I can barely thee.
Every bone an' muthel in my body acheths - woe ith me!
I called the docther's offith for relief only to be told,
That he wath home in bed nursin' a nasthy cold!
He would've told me to take an athpirin an' go to bed.
I reckon I'll juth have to thuffer through it here inthead!
'Cold' ith a mithnomer for thith afflicthion anyhow.
"Why ith it called a cold?", I muse, throkin' my fevered brow,
An' quaffin' noxthious concothions to relieve my burnin' throat.
The meds can't quash my mithery, as the pharmathy ads promote!
Man hath thent rockeths soarin' through the boundleth univerth,
So why can't they find a cure for thith worrithome curth!
There musth be some college kid who thomeday will find a cure.
She'd be more than eligible for Nobel estheem I'm quite sure!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rightths Resethered
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