Hid-Thish Me Not

The Magic Realist

Since last half past Fall
And deep within
I ponder what there may be to know
To stop sneezes bandied to and fro.
Is it a sin
To detest them all?

 Hermetically hithered in psychic mist
The itching olfactory ceiling is felt,
Then orgasmic release of one’s germ revenue.
The sound that is uttered is a phlegm filled A’choo!”
Whence just moments prior, within sickness dwelt.
At least cover your mouth, I must insist!

 A’choo!” then, is standard
Among most
Though benign variations span worldwide
By syllabic profusion, they all coincide –
All a toast
To sickness meandered

 When I went to the doctor, I got my shot.
While waiting I met with a sniffling soul
When I said “Hello,” he said “Hid-thish… How are you?”
‘Twas obvious this fellow’d come down with the flu.
I’m back home by now, and I’m feeling quite whole
So hold on to your germs, and ‘hid-thish me not!

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