Classic Poem

I hate the knave whose private life
Is noted for its lack of morals,
Who starves his children, beats his wife,
Who fights and drinks and quarrels;
But oh! I view more sternly far
(How hostile grow my eyes of hazel!)
The rogue who suffers from catarrh —
The kind that's known as " nasal " !
With looks of loathing I behold
The wretched man who's got a cold!

Though criminals I can forgive,
And gladly suffer fools who bore me,
At peace with him I cannot live
Who scatters microbes o'er me!
He should be exiled, out of reach,
Condemned to dwell in isolation,
Who punctuates his ev'ry speech
With bouts of sternutation!
No blacker crime exists, I hold,
Than to transmit a heavy cold!

Then let me brand in harshest terms
The caitiff who, in fashion stealthy,
Disseminates catarrhal germs
Among the sane and healthy;
Who, when he ought to be in bed,
Snorts like a pair of punctured bellows,
Until his fell complaint is spread
Broadcast among his fellows!
With passion fierce and uncontrolled
I loathe the man who's got a cold!