Affront on the Viral Cavalry

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.