Breathes there a man with soul so dead, who never to himself had said,
“Why should I to the doctor go, to have him on my arm bestow
Those singular and “iffy” shots, he says protects me from the trots?”
Oh, fickle, random parasite, which fain would keep us up at night,
Perchance confine us to our beds while throbbing curses ache our heads.
Still worse, I hear it can become Pneumococcus Bacterium.
This Russian roulette guessing game, has had its cruel intended aim.
I watch lest one cough becomes two. Oh, curse, I have the dreaded flue.
Next year, I vow, I’ll take the leap and bare my arm and silent keep.
-Doug Garrett