A Bad Poem

Ick. Ick. Ick. I've been sick. Even sleep won't do the trick.

Ache. Ache. Ach. My head aches. My throat is sore, my stomach quakes. (sometimes)

Ow. Ow. Ow. My neck hurts now. The room, it spins. I hate to chow.

Work, work, work, yes it's berserk. But I don't care. It's just my quirk.

Gotta go.