First he tried a cough with an experimental wheeze,
Followed by a sniffle which resulted in a sneeze.
A woebegone expression then settled in with speed,
As he made a great pronouncement- he was very ill indeed.
His throat was turning septic and his head was throbbing too,
He suspected double pneumonia or a case of Avian Flu.
He had to go to bed and rub some Vicks upon his chest,
And drink a nice hot whisky to stop him being depressed.
His wife was up and down those stairs, she really was a saint,
She did every little thing she could, so sort out his complaints.
She soothed his fevered brow and gave him sundry pills and potions,
And spoiled him something rotten as she nursed him with devotion.
But then it came to her turn, she was afflicted by the germs,
And soon she was in dire straits and feeling quite infirm
But he insisted he was worse, he'd got superior bugs,
So he wallowed happily in his bed, all warm and cosy and snug.
The husband was malingering and that was his undoing,
She carried on regardless, but there was trouble brewing.
She made his favourite meal that night, although she felt quite ghastly,
Then sneezed all over his coq au vin - and told him it was parsley!
Nevertheless he seemed to like the seasoning on his dinner,
And he got his just deserts, 'cos that scoundrel was a sinner
So to all you hypochondriacs, think of this with trepidation,
And never cross a woman before your mastication.
Carol Proud, Darlington.
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Thanks for sharing Yvette