Even the common cold Is a luxury I can’t afford to suffer through For I’ll give in to temptation And develop complications In a day or two Grow blistering drops of sweat About my neck and head And if I remember Hippocrates The sophist of mucus and piss
Correctly such sweats are really Bad off to a quarantine A drifting hospital Bound for international waters Those about to expire are filed in Simply known as floaters The white pill then the blue one And the green ‘If you don’t fight Lad you won’t win’ says the nurse From behind the tray as in contempt I turn away In doing so I catch a glimpse Of one of the crew He is Prometheus a Greek sailor The fellow caught the bird flue And now’s fading due to liver failure I wonder if he’s that soloist who Was reduced to the rhythm section The finger of the offended Deity Ever pointed in his direction But I have my own matters To attend to For I can not quite comprehend The possibility of myself No longer being here The thought that someone Else will waste the air While In an elegant glass jar Air sealed with cedar tar Preserved in pure alcohol My frail shell Oh in the name of hell Halt that is why I can’t afford to suffer Through the common cold
