It's The Sickly Season Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

It's The Sickly Season

Rating: 5.0


Young lady, may I be so bold
to steal a kiss to heal my cold?
You see, the germs I caught have screwed
inside my throat, which is quite rude.

Now millions see the light of day
and I'm the one who has to pay.
They first stick to laryngeal tissue
where dark and moisture is an issue,

appealing, also mandatory
they then create a purgatory
of mayhem with their little pricks.
Each germ makes clones, two billion six.

Secreting sweet and tasty stuff
until it bathes, just enough
the area for this invasion
an opportunist's sweet occasion.

I beg your pardon for the text
that is presented here and next;
the buggers masturbate (it's true)
thus getting partners to renew

their life-essential fascination:
Through pheromones to fornication.
The host, asleep and unaware,
they mark each cell by Croix de Guerre

and mix on an atomic level
the slime, a product of the Devil.
At first it's yellow but quite soon
resembles snod from a spittoon,

which means viscosity increases
and one can see some solid pieces
all coloured green for an effect
on other microbes I suspect.

So now they've really taken charge
with billions busy and at large
they eat small bits of YOU, oh yes,
and make inside your mouth a mess.

Their troupes have individual skills;
where one erodes, the other kills
some are dispatched up to the nose
where doctors later diagnose

rhinitis purulent, infective
and give the usual directive
of symptomatic intervention,
to put an end to this convention

of tiny tots who pitter-patter,
inside your gizzard where they splatter
their streptocousins everywhere,
with mean intent and easy flair.

Of course, I'm kidding, just a bit,
while colds will make you feel like shit,
your body overcomes them quickly
and you will shed the pale and sickly

appearance within days at most.
No longer must you play the host,
to mention I shall not forget
your doctor, only if you let

him write a script for magic pills
you'd be advised to seek the hills
because, there is no real cure
for those conditions, that's for sure.

That is because the germs I mentioned
above as being ill-intentioned,
are mostly of the viral kind
and, if you look you soon will find

that man has never learned to beat
most viruses because they cheat
and hide themselves from antibodies
thus make them look like Fuddy-Duddies

and pounce in darkness and at night
victorious and out of sight.
So, here is my own remedy:
When colds and flu are eyeing thee,

instill two drops of my own magic
a liquid which is virophagic
into each ear, three times a day.
It keeps the germs and docs away.

You ask what might this potion be
that can prevent your misery?
It is peroxide, three percent
I thought that was self-evident.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM

Tara summed it up. Simply fabulous. A lesson in the art of detail. Ez

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I'm presuming putting it on the hair doesn't work? Anyway. I know just the doctor for any form of sickness, and that includes lowness of the spirit... simply fabulous H. As ever. t x

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