An Ode to Conjunctivitis

You wake up groggy; the world’s a blur,

You stumble, you trip, you curse the liqueur.

You were supposed to awaken crisp like toast

Yet here you are, as blind as a post

(You’re mixing your metaphors¹ now, never a good sign.

The next time you drink, you stick to your rum.)

Damn.

 

You look in the mirror, you recoil with fear,

You trip on the pot and moisten your rear.

(Of the slapstick, dear poet, there is no real need,

Let’s stick to the symptoms, I humbly plead.)

 

Fine, hmph, so your eyes are all gummy,

And bloodshot and itchy and watery,

Accompanied by an infection of the upper respiratory tract, a common cold and/or a sore throat.

(Now see what you’ve done, you imbecilic son of Zorg,

You’ve made him quote from Wikipedia.org.

You’ve insulted his art; you’ve taken his mickey,

You’ve made him resort to quoting from… Oh, wait, I already said that.)

 

Anyway, where was I?

 

It’s highly infectious, people look quickly away,

You begin to feel ostracized, like Robert Mugabe.

Of Zimbabwe.

Hehe.

(Now cut it out, Mister. This is an ‘ode’, you realise?

It should be stately and profound and lyrical and wise.

No more horsing around now, this is going all awry,

Let’s get back to talking ’bout your old Chenn-eye).

 

Your local physician, he tells you to rest,

And to sit around the house in that dirty, holey vest.

Use eye drops and cough drops and keep your hands clean,

And most important of all, don’t stare at that computer screen.

 

Oh.

 

_______

¹
Similes, actually. How much did you drink, anyway?

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