A man's cold is always an epic event, comparable in scale to a global catastrophe. Even with a mild fever of thirty-seven.2 degrees, the stronger sex can exhibit incredible fragility and require maximum care. This collection features ironic poems that humorously describe all stages of the "fatal" illness. You'll recognize in these lines your husbands, brothers, and friends who turn into capricious children at the sight of an ordinary thermometer. Read, smile, and remember that the best cure for the male flu is your boundless patience.
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Thirty seven and two
His face is paler than a sheet, His eyes are filled with universal sadness. He can't sleep today, And he regrets his life so much. He's only thirty-seven and two, But the world has rocked and fallen silent. A strange noise is somewhere in his head, And a whim has died on his lips.
A will by the sofa
He folded his arms across his chest, carefully adjusted his blanket. He said: "Darling, go away, leave me alone, I'm not alive. Give the drill to your neighbor, the car to your brother, let your faithful dog remember my farewell bark, don't hold back the stream of tears. I'm going to the land of shadows, where there are no pharmacies and no doctors. Just stick me a mustard plaster, so I can feel a little warmer.".
Searching for a remote control and sympathy
Atlas lies, crushed by darkness, his lips barely moving. "Oh, where is my beloved remote control? The illness is insidious and empty." He asks for tea, but not hot, not ice. How can he bear his heavy cross, when no one calls?
Tragedy in one robe
He coughed—and the house shook, Like thunder in the sky. He ran quickly to bed, Losing all interest in life. "Look, my hand is shaking, It must be the terrible flu! My soul is shaking with pain, And my voice is completely hoarse." He asks to call all the doctors, professors and experts. Amidst a pile of masks and things, He is ready to await salvation.
A thermometer is a dangerous device.
The glass column suddenly froze, revealing its small stature. But the husband is frightened, my dear friend, For him, this is a graveyard. "He's lying! I feel the fire! There's a fire burning inside me!" Just don't touch his forehead, For a hellish nightmare is brewing there.
Fighting the runny nose
One sneeze and all is lost, The curtains are closed, the lights are out. Three pillows aren't enough for him, His final hour has come. Handkerchiefs are piled up everywhere, His nose is treacherously itchy. He won't touch fast food, He's very sick and broken. "Tell me, why am I suffering like this? Why did this insidious cold come?" He stretches out his feeble hands, Illness has put on an evil mask.
A blanket as a shield
Wrapped in a fluffy cocoon, Only the tip of his nose sticks out. A martyr's gaze, so pure, And in it lie a million questions. "Did you bring the soup? What about the lemon? Where's my raspberry tea?" Illness is a heavy law, Whether you cry or call for help.
Chicken Soup of Salvation
Bring the pot quickly, Brew a healing elixir. So that he becomes a little more cheerful and loves the whole world again. He took the spoon, barely breathing, Swallowed a hot tear. His soul immediately came alive within him, Chasing away the gray storm. But five minutes later again: "Oh, something's stabbing in my side! It's time for me to lie down again, No time for football, no time for solos.".
The look of a martyr
He looks as one looks into eternity, With silent reproach at fate. The infinity of his suffering Is visible only on his pale forehead. "Are you going to the store? Buy some medicine, So that everything will be gone forever. My treachery is destroyed, A great misfortune has come.".
Pharmacy inspector
He knows all the names of ointments, tablets, drops, and syrups. To get rid of the infection, he drank liters of different juices. "This one is bitter, I won't, And that one doesn't cure a damn thing!" He seeks a true miracle, To stop his headache. He checks the expiration date, Reads the instructions aloud. He prepares a powerful retribution, To strengthen his weak spirit.
Whisper instead of bass
Yesterday he was shouting, "Goals! Hurray!", rooting for his team. Today, since early morning, he's been struggling to stand on the edge. He whispers, "My throat... like needles..." And his scarf is wrapped in five strands. He's ready to trade his sports shirts for a blanket.
A hero on sick leave
He didn't go to practice, Forgot about important matters. He showed amazing dexterity, So that you would bring him a pillow. "I was wounded in a battle with the microcosm, I fell, struck down! Don't call me an idol, I'm too sick." He asks for cartoons and porridge, As if he's back in kindergarten. And he absorbs all our care and tenderness, Resembling a lion.
Raspberry tea and sadness
Jam drips onto the saucer, In the eyes - a plea and a quiet moan. As if the years will not return, As if life is a sad dream. "One more spoon, my dear, And throw in more sugar." He is weak, like a little cat, Among the pharmacy heroines.
Farewell to football
The match of the century began on Saturday, but he sees nothing. The damned cough has taken over—tormenting the poor man. "Write the score down on a piece of paper, I can't even look at it. In my poor, cold-ridden self, there's only the thirst to survive, not to burn out." He turned proudly to the wall, sighing as heavily as an old man. His weakened knees tremble, his victorious cry has died down.
Where are my mustard socks?
He suddenly remembered the ancient method of our ancestors in the middle of the night. There is nothing in the world more beautiful than warming your feet on a brick. He pulls up his socks, wincing, and waits for the effect to come. His forehead sweats profusely, sending his defect to illness.
Simulation or rock?
You'll say, "Darling, maybe that's enough? After all, you just ate." But he, in his large robe, has suddenly grown quiet again. "You won't understand a man's lot, For us, every virus is a sharp knife! I submit to an evil bondage, A vicious shudder runs through me." He believes sacredly in his illness, He plays the role to the end. And the circle closes around the suffering young man.
Night cough
A sound rang out in the silence, like a wall collapsing. It was her husband, her dear friend, awakening from sleep. "Oh, I can't breathe! Give me water, or better yet, honey." He saw the abyss and the line, and death was already clutching at his heels.
Vitamin of Hope
A yellow ball in the palm of his hand—like the sun in December. He's stuck in his pursuit of health at dawn. "Help me, ascorbic acid, restore strength to my muscles! I'm a transparent snowflake on this thorny path." He swallows them by the handful, washing them down with water. He shares with us all his bitter misfortune.
The world froze at the bedside
Quiet, people, don't make noise, the king of colds wants to sleep. You walk on tiptoe, don't disturb that bed. He fought, he struggled, he defeated the germs. And he curled up into a ball himself, he's so tired today.
Titan's Recovery
Three days passed, and a miracle happened: He got up, went, and ate lunch. Where did that fatigue go? The scenario of bitter misfortunes was gone. He was cheerful again, he was happy again, He forgot about the thermometer and the blanket. And how much nonsense he had hung on you— Only the council knows about it. "I won! I'm the strongest!" he shouted, turning his head. And you, with helpless tenderness, are glad that he's alive again.