Stop Touching All My Stuff.

Yep. One day late. Sorry again, all two of my readers. Won't happen again.

This one's for you, Courtney. You have my sympathies, dearheart. There's nothing worse than a sick roommate. My suggestion - a shotgun and some fire. Then some Vitamin C, just to be sure.


Stop Touching All My Stuff

You wipe your nose, then rifle through my notes.
You hack, you spit your plague with every huff,
you sound like seven toads are in your throat.
You're sick. Please stop touching all my stuff.
Back! Stay back, I do not have the time
for ghastly pallor, for mucous on my cuff
in three-crust layers! Keep your sickly slime
away from me. Stop touching all my stuff!
I see it now - the pictures on the news
of droves afflicted, pestilent and dying.
The pox you've spread! A holocaust ensues -
the lives destroyed by you! The children crying!
Its root, one Patient Zero - you. Enough!
I beg of you, stop touching all my stuff.