The harking of my illness throat,
Another hole, A sunken boat,
You cannot cure the lamb from slaughter,
So keep it’s head held underwater.
The sniffing comes with such a bug,
Cut it down, the trees are blood,
You cannot clear this woodland path,
Not at all, not even half.
The guilt arrives and joins the others,
Sniffing and Harking, pain-crossed lovers,
The illness, the cough, the flu, the cold,
Retire from my chest and do me proud.