Classic Poem

You know the dread signal of death I suppose?
But one whimsical quaestor has lately ordained
A new one, and said if he once blew his nose
It was sentence of death on the culprit arraigned.
Till winter drew on was the custom maintained,
Then the judge caught catarrh from December's chill breath
And his colleagues rushed up and his hands they restrained
Or all the accused had been sentenced to death.