but her poor servants are not born of Zeus.
We cannot of ambrosia drink our fill
and feel all better. When the phlegm cuts loose,
And poets bark like Cerberus in Hell
to clear their mucous-riddled Pipes of Pan,
it will take more than verse to make them well--
Asclepius cannot, but Tussin can.
So put a warm compress upon your head,
you versifier. Sip some lemon tea.
Set by your quill; take two of these instead.
Get lots of rest--just read or watch TV.
A day or two and you'll be right as rain,
and maybe fit for poetry again.
1 comment:
Not feeling terribly well today. The quality of poetry reflects that, I fear. Hope to be back in fighting shape soon.
Luckily for me it doesn't have to be good every day--it just has to be *something.* I'll do better later, I promise. :P
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