I am tired, I am sick
I can sense the clock's each tick

My eyes are droopy and my nose, runny
When I speak, I do sound funny

My mind seems to be fixated on whiskey
I'm not drunk, and yet I feel frisky

The sound of silence is like music to my ears
My ailments have brought me to the verge of tears

Here I am, racking my brains in search of a sonnet
Wishing to lay under the blazing sun on my car's bonnet

Twisting my words in ways I do not wish
My Illness has been served like revenge, a cold dish

Blowing into a hankey for the umpteenth time
Sipping away at a glass of water and the syrup of lime

Even gazing at the clouds has become a chore
This sickness hinders my imagination, which makes life a bore