O God of Phlegm, O Lord of Snot,
How many years have passed with not
A glimmer of thine presence viral
Causing my poor health to spiral
Downward ’til it hits rock bottom?
(And how cliché, to strike in autumn!)
I had not missed you, Saint of Sniffles,
Nor the way my throat now tickles
With each breath, as though a feather
To my uvula were tethered.
(What purpose, friend, for this vexation
With my every inhalation?!)
But I suppose our fate was sealed
As my flight took off from the field.
Eight hours in Economy’s squish
– A plane? More like a petri dish! –
Left little doubt someone would share
A germy gift while in mid-air.
But King of Coughs, O Lozenge Liege,
I prithee, end this fruitless siege!
We both know how this war will end;
You will be vanquished, I will mend.
So spare us both these feeble throes
And go harass another’s nose.
We are not like to meet again
Until I board another plane.