Saturday, March 15, 2014

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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 C├Žsar died,
When others find their way to cheer,
I sit and sniffle, joy denied
Until, at last, I can breathe clear.

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