Beware the Ides of March, of course.
I find myself in mood to sing
As cuckoo was bid sing of old,
Yet I cannot let my voice ring
For allergy or else for cold.
The spring has sprung, the weather warmed,
The winter's chill has gone away,
Yet here where plants new-made are farmed
The chill is chased by fever hay.
My nose a faucet has become,
Scratchy now my throat has grown.
Sinuses swell and make me dumb
All unsettling reason's throne.
So on this day when Cæsar died,
When others find their way to cheer,
I sit and sniffle, joy denied
Until, at last, I can breathe clear.