Little pneumococci, Tiny germy things, Playing rough as hockey With my nervous strings, Rushing through my system, Caring not a D Whether you may twist 'em Right plumb out of me, List to what I'm saying In this feeble hymn: You must stop your playing -- I am not a gymn! Little pneumococci, Tiny bunch of death, Running me all rocky, Robbing me of breath, Making me feel weary In my every cell, Making life too dreary Far for me to tell, Heed while I repeat it -- What I said before: Hurry, bugs, and beat it Out and slam the door! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DREAM-PEDLARY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES EPITAPH ON HIMSELF by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE CINQUAIN: NIGHT WINDS by ADELAIDE CRAPSEY LOVE'S CAUTION by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES THE WAKING YEAR by EMILY DICKINSON BOTHWELL: PART 1 by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN |