You know your days are numbered
When something evil has you thrown
Into the dreaded dungeon of disease
Food, Air, Water, Vector-borne.
My body temperature has turned bipolar
My taste buds are on strike
My head is on a permanent roller coaster
A rush you wouldn't like.
A vast white ceiling for a permanent view
Despicable chemical drugs for vices
Food and soups that taste like feet
Devoid of all sugars and spices.
But there’s something about this misery
That’s oddly, oddly comforting
No agenda, nowhere to be
Now begins the vegetating!
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