by Nick Gisburne
The fever finds a home in every throat
It claws and clings to each infected lung
The eyes begin to bleed, the organs bloat
The sinews of the limbs become unstrung
The skin is soon a loose and leprous bag
Infection starts to gather in its folds
Each tortured breath a shallow, gasping drag
The torso crusts with decomposing moulds
The viscera, distended, stretch and tear
Their septic fluids thicken with decay
The brain boils in a sludge of bone and hair
The heart pumps what is left of life away
If symptomatic you will not survive
Be ready when the cleansing crews arrive
