a bad case of poetry

What was the first symptom?
Ba-ba, black sheep, have you any –
and how far it has developed
how feverish the blood,
hot as sick roses and
burning bright as tygers might –
coughing next, through nights alone
imagining sunny spots of greenery,
with rills of wondrous daffodils –
and soon it becomes productive,
ah, here, there, a gob of lyric in the mouth
and spit on the ground, or, god forbid,
swallowed down –
and there is no recovery
only a life lived, spitting out
a thousand thousand slimy lines
until succumbing to the bout.

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