It's no fun being ill like this, Each moment a flu-like ail. A coughing, sneezing, phlegmy mess, First flushed, then green, then pale.
Clutching at soggy tissues, Dressing-gown not once removed, Drugged enough to reach a register - Not one jot, though, am I improved.
My throat is sore and claggy, My back is old and stiff, My nose so worked it hurts to touch, Let alone to try to sniff.
And all I've been drinking is bovril, And all I've been eating is soup, For breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Stuck on continuous loop.
While the family is off in Malta, I'm stuck sick at home, (And I've not had very much sympathy, When they're sunning themselves on the phone.)
So I'll load myself up on lemsip, Suck on a strepsil or two, Stick on the kettle and telly, And suffer with nothing to do.
I wish I would just get better, It's no fun with an interminable cold, "But cheer up, there's worse out at sea, Not that bad!"... Or so I am told.