We’ve been fairly wallowing in pestilence and plague, so perhaps
it’s time for something with a lighter touch for National Poetry Month. I knew Ogden
Nash would not let me down.
A couple of thoughts:
First, there’s a strong thematic connection because the symptoms
of the novel coronavirus are essentially those of the common cold: cough,
fever, shortness of breath.
But second, this is just so quaint—the poet is berating a doctor
who’s just made a house call. A house call! I mean, that’s like getting
milk delivered to your doorstep in glass bottles.
And third, of course Nash would take the role of hypochondriac.
“Common Cold”
Go
hang yourself, you old M.D.!
You
shall not sneer at me.
Pick
up your hat and stethoscope,
Go
wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I
contemplate a joy exquisite
I'm
not paying you for your visit.
I
did not call you to be told
My
malady is a common cold.
By
pounding brow and swollen lip;
By
fever's hot and scaly grip;
By
those two red redundant eyes
That
weep like woeful April skies;
By
racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
By
handkerchief after handkerchief;
This
cold you wave away as naught
Is
the damnedest cold man ever caught!
Give
ear, you scientific fossil!
Here
is the genuine Cold Colossal;
The
Cold of which researchers dream,
The
Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
This
honored system humbly holds
The
Super-cold to end all colds;
The
Cold Crusading for Democracy;
The
Führer of the Streptococcracy.
Bacilli
swarm within my portals
Such
as were ne'er conceived by mortals,
But
bred by scientists wise and hoary
In
some Olympic laboratory;
Bacteria
as large as mice,
With
feet of fire and heads of ice
Who
never interrupt for slumber
Their
stamping elephantine rumba.
A
common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!
Ah,
yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
Don
Juan was a budding gallant,
And
Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;
The
Arctic winter is fairly coolish,
And
your diagnosis is fairly foolish.
Oh
what a derision history holds
For
the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!
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