Sonnet: Out Of Sorts

So far in my life, it's clear when I'm sick--
it starts in my throat--hot, scratchy, and sore--
I'm well, then bang! I'm shitty--it's that quick:
I can't get warm--three days gone, maybe more.
I'm 160lbs of ill--
and of course it's viral, so there's no pill.
I'm hot, cold, out of sorts, a helpless mess--
if this is some exam, I fail the test.
It doesn't last long; I know it's minor,
but it knocks me down, puts me into bed--
I can't eat, write, read--my throat's on fire--
I'm the foll with the sore hundred pound head.
Thanks, mom, for insisting I have tonsils--
this is courtesy of your wise counsel.

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