At seven this morning, I felt perfectly fine
But with midday’s arrival I was on the decline
My throat went from a tickle, to sore, and then ache
And then as though my trachea were starting to flake
I found some fuzz on my tonsil, all splotchy and white
Or it might have been a colony of dead lymphocytes
I jumped to the worst, implored to the caucus:
“Do you think the blame falls on A. streptococcus?”
I gargled with salt and I slurped on some tea
Squeezed in some lemon and mixed in honey
I sucked on some garlic ‘cause it’s antibacterial
But the halitosis, alas, was far from mercurial
It doesn’t make sense; how did I get this bug?
I have no love interest to swap spit or to hug
There has been no tongue, no gaping-maw kiss
On which I can blame my streptococcus
Maybe I should give in, like in eras pre
Before penicillin and MDR-TB
No antibiotics, just coughing up blood
And a nice plague wagon all covered in mud
And when the last light goes off on my way to the goddess
I can say, “Oh! YOU are to blame for my streptococcus.”
But in this modern age we say, “¡Viva la lucha!”
And, “Maybe next time don’t drink Riley’s kombucha.”
But it was sweet and delicious and what can I say
I live my life like Dorian Grey
So, I’ll curse consequence and that hedonist Bacchus
For they are to blame for my streptococcus
Or, better yet, it was just meant to be
Biological warfare fought over me
See? I am but the victim, and I call out for aid
From prescriptions and people to help end the raid
“Simon Bolivar! Liberate me from these invaders!
My throat’s been overtaken by microscopic crusaders!”
But there is no hopeful reply out of Caracas
And I fear I am to blame for my streptococcus