An ordinary cold is a hateful thing
With sneezes and wheezes and coughing that bring
Tremulous moments while holding one’s breath
Trying to stave off once more a feeling of death.
The mornings of glory no longer abound
The nights filled with snoring, a ghastly old sound.
With days hard to get through and work gone askew
While others are playing or getting their due.
No more feeling happy, no more feeling sad
There’s only the feeling of just feeling bad
And hope of recov’ry that once seemed so near
Is lost like a mem’ry and moments of fear.
As days filled with sneezing and wheezing move on
And glimmers of hope that this cold will be gone
For sooner or later there must be a day
When the ordinary cold has outlived its stay.