In spite of her sniffle
 Isabel's chiffle.
 Some girls with a sniffle
 Would be weepy and tiffle;
 They would look awful,
 Like a rained-on waffle,
 But Isabel's chiffle
 In spite of her sniffle.
 Her nose is more red
 With a cold in her head,
 But then, to be sure,
 Her eyes are bluer.
 Some girls with a snuffle,
 Their tempers are uffle.
 But when Isabel's snivelly
 She's snivelly civilly,
 And when she's snuffly
 She's perfectly luffly.

There’s a nasty little bug going round Bangalore and pretty wisps of lace and cambric are everywhere (“A handkerchief, my dear, is a tissue that you don’t throw away.”). If all the pretty young things sniffling around the city were laid end-to-end, I (and Dorothy parker) wouldn’t be a bit surprised. This is a dedication to all the colds-in-the-head this flu season, in Beantown and elsewhere.

Alert Minstrels readers will remember another Ogden Nash gem on the common cold (Poem no. 325) - this is more whimsical, and even more delightfully, utterly Nash-esque (Nash-ian? Nash-istic?).

— Anustup