Ode to Allergies

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If you are well, if you're sick, either way:
allergies: ick!

The ahem, ahem, ahem will quick do the trick to drive you crazy, to pick at your brain, like the little dog next door, who wakes you each morning to remind that your throat is sore.

The coughing, too will make you rue, the day you became allergic. Snuffling snorts, emanate from a place of groggy foggy bog.

And speaking of fog, you'll notice the brain of the afflicted has stilled to a glaze in a haze of stupidity all round, drifting up from the ground, where pollens lift and blow. Then the breeze comes bringing dust which of course you know can trust to finish the job of a whole head clogged.

The victim, who surely by now along with the hearer, suffers dearly, lies in bed, laid low with Kleenex sifting to the sheet like snow, begging for psuedophedefrine or whatever they call it, calling for aspirin and claritin, anything, as long as it helps with the appalling, dripping nose, and later drought, dry as a bone.

Bless families of the hacker above.

Appreciative croaking may issue, but may not show how grateful she is for a lotion infused tissue. Grateful to the bearer of tea, bringer of dinner as she lays flopped on the couch, hoping for healing and ending of more flowering grasses which I understand come dramatically, willfully along with a wonderful soaking rain, which at the present is pouring H2O down the drain, gurgling like...

...well nevermind, just be kind.


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