On this day after Thanksgiving,I've take to bed, Feeling quite awful, Just the warm side of dead.
As to what really ails me, I haven't a clue. Don't think it's pneumonia, Though it might be the flu. My throat's slightly swollen, Kinda scratchy and sore. And I'm achy and chilling All the way to my core. Yet my stomach's not upset, My digestive tract's fine, Though my lower back throbs Like a moose stomped my spine. My head is all spinning, And my balance is off. But I don't have a fever, And I don't have a cough. Is it something exotic, A rare foreign disease? Like a virus from Asia? Or a germ from Belize? Should I feng shui the cottage? Call a shaman or priest? Or consult some old herbal For my healing release? I'd like to recover, But which way is best? A round of prescriptions? Or just plenty of rest? The choice isn't easy… Tell me, which do I choose? Prescribed antibiotics, Or aspirin and booze? Too many decisions For my muddled head, I think my best recourse Is to go back to bed. What worries me most, though, Are not thoughts I might die, But fear I'll miss eating All that leftover pie. Pumpkin and apple And coconut cream, Pecan, banana— Quite a pie-lover's dream! Plus savory victuals Like turkey and dressing, Cranberries, artichokes, A fridge full of blessings! So while I'm still upright And able to think, I'll pile a plate high And get out the drink. I still feel pretty awful
But I'll try and endure…
And if food is the answer,
Then I soon will be cured!
[I hope you'll forgive this bit of doggerel. Blame it on whatever bug has laid me low. I'll let you know if I survive.]