MALAISE

If you've had the flu, this poem's for you . . .



MALAISE



I seem to have a virus in my soul,

A thing of huge proportions, something green,

Transmitting messages like a telephone pole.



I think it was concocted by a troll.

Something not nice, not pristine.

I seem to have a virus in my soul.



A bug like this is anything but droll,

Invading my nervous sustem all unseen,

Transmitting messages like a telephone pole.



I'd like to let it out, be on parole.

I wonder at its shape - perhaps a bean?

I seem to have a virus in my soul.



There is an element here of grand guignol -

Kidneys, liver, heart and apleen

Transmitting messages like a telephone pole



I'm food for bugs. Yes, on the whole,

An element of soup in a tureen.

I seem to have a virus in my soul

Transmitting messages like telephone pole.