I am sick of being sick.
My resistance is low.
A virus has penetrated my shield.
Being down for the count
Renders me vulnerable,
With little energy to retaliate.
The wee, little army inside me,
Once tenacious and mighty
Is reduced to shooting limp missiles.
So, I rest,
Then rest some more,
Fortifying my weak defenses
With hot tea and saltines;
Not great fodder for the starving army.
What little patience remains
Is being put to the test.
Guess I didnt study for this one.
Three more days in bed should do it.
If not, just shoot me!
