Just a few hours
Since last I wrote verse
My health and comfort
Have grown ever worse.
I’m caughing and wheezing,
Congested and achy,
Borderline antisocial
And across-the-line flaky.
But I find in this state
Of poor manners and health
I’ve gained more than money…
A much grander wealth:
The fortune and glory
My sickness imposed
Was not giving a shit.
It’s better than I’d supposed.
The Daily Travesty 