Laid low, not by la belle dame
But a virus sans merci
My body tossed ‘tween searing
heat and icy clamminess
so that sleep eludes my lids
the ache beyond endurance, still I bear
it leaves me trembling, shaken, bone-wearied
until I give in, search about the bed
for that panacea, two little pills.

At last I drift Lethe-wards,
to fall into the gentle,
tender embrace of Morpheus.