When you work with a cold, as I am today, You feel awful and chilly and tired. One way to get through-- may I now say to you?— Is to keep silent fun unexpired. I pretend I am hunting, as I waver and cough, Like I’m out with my gun in the field. But my double-barrel snot-gun keeps going off— I’m reminded that’s all that I wield. My throat keeps on burning; my head keeps on churning, And I add lemon juice to my tea. But I keep with my learning, while a living I’m earning, I’m so glad that the beverage is free! My nose is so sore, and it feels such a bore To keep blowing and wiping so often. But I look at that door, and forget that it’s sore— Going home somehow makes it to soften. Well, the day’s getting old; I’ll be glad to behold My house and my blanket and bed. I finally will fold, and in spite of this cold, This poem was just written—not said.