Down, But Not Out

Oh, how I hate these chills, these winter ills, Bleak blasts and breezes; Abominate the 'flu,' the fierce 'Tishoo' All inappropriate sneezes; How I detest th' uneasy, wheezy chest. Yet (tho' the declaration may seem priggish) Fate I defy; and to Cold's cohorts cry, Indomitable ever: 'Ick! ... Ip! ... Iggish!' I dream of coral isles where sunlight smiles And high noon blazes, Where luscious tropic green, is vaguely seen Thro' dancing hazes. I long for these; and then some biting breeze Pierces my being like an icy splinter; Yet once more I, with shrill defiance, cry And fling taunts in the teeth of woeful Winter. I know this dread disease brings me unease Most deleterious; And well, indeed, I know I often grow Slightly delirious. But, all the same, nought may my spirit tame; Fears I have never felt nor eke confessed any; Tho' some have said I'm partly off my head When I bark challenges at brooding Destiny. Oft - Ip! (Excuse me) Snisch! ... Often I wish For sword and buckler To slake my seething hate. To sneering Fate I am no truckler. Tho' my poor head, pain-wreathed, sinks to the bed, Ah, bleak battalions, I would smite and smash you! For, don't forget, I am my own man yet While my unconquerable soul shouts, 'Ack! ... Harrashoo!'