Just how much more drip, I'm beginning to wonder
can drip from my musket, 'fore it blows me asunder.
A wheeze ambles up my cobblestone throat
blasting open parched doors, flecks of spittle in tote.
I muster up all of an old grouch's brawn
between I and good health, battle lines have been drawn.
"Prepare to eat dirt, sonny," says I, grouch to the flu
"this bounty of pills should make short work of you."
Multi-colored grenades are thrown down a hatch,
I'll be stoned to the nines or have gut rot to match.