I asked at my appraisal,
And at my interview,
What work they meant by 'nasal',
And what work I'd - squachoo!
They looked me in the iris;
They handed me some cheese.
They mentioned 'rhinovirus'
And – excuse me – I must sneeze.
They said it was genetic
(Apols. My nose is leaking).
The lab's not too frenetic –
Quite formal, strictly squeaking.
I know I'm not a primate,
Since a primate's often ill,
And perhaps it is the climate
That has made me catch this chill,
And my salary's been paid up,
And I work hard, so I'm told,
But I'm sorry. I am laid up
With a most uncommon cold.
Now I may sound wee and sleekit,
But my doc says I've a thick throat.
I'll be off work for a week. It
May be more. Enclosed, my sicknote.