Strange, every breathe I take
My body seems at war with me
Neither poem nor prose
Will stand this running nose of mine
These hay fever months
No work stems from my hands
Intended opus grand sneezed away
Handkerchief at hand
I fight my lost defence
Once again
True, there are things much worse
Than my own little curse, I know
But how deep can you go
To wish you’d be a burrowed mole
These hay fever months
No work stems from my hands
Intended opus grand sneezed away
Let me take a break to snout mu dearest friend
Escaped from mu command
Once again