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...DOMESDAY BOOK: THE CONVENT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS OF ANY OLD MAN by ISAAC ROSENBERG LONDON VOLUNTARIES: 3. SCHERZANDO by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY TO SIR HENRY CARY by BEN JONSON SHEEP AND LAMBS by KATHARINE TYNAN PERVERSITY by EVA K. ANGLESBURG PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 72, 73, 74, 75. AWWAL, AKHIR, THAHIR, BATIN by EDWIN ARNOLD |