Boone, N.C., Newspaper Poem About Spanish Flu Pandemic, 1919

From the Feb. 6, 1919 issue of The Watauga Democrat, Boone

The Flu

When your back is broke and your eyes are blurred,

And your shin bones knock and your tongue is furred,

And your tonsils squeak and your hair gets dry,

And you’re doggone sure that you’re going to die,

But you’re skerred you won’t and afraid you will,

Just drag to bed and have your chill,

And pray the Lord to see you through

For you’ve got the Flu, boy—

You’ve got the Flu.

 

When your toes curl up and your belt goes flat,

And you’re twice as mean as a Thomas cat,

And life is a long and dismal curse,

And your food all tastes like a hard-boiled hearse,

When your lattice aches and your head’s a-buzz,

And nothing is as it ever was,

Here are my sad regrets to you,

You’ve got the Flu, boy—

You’ve got the Flu.

 

What is it like, this Spanish Flu?

Ask me brother, for I’ve been thru.

It is by Misery out of Despair;

It pulls your teeth and curls your hair;

It thins your blood and brays your bones,

And fills your craw with moans and groans.

And sometimes, maybe, you get well.

Some call it Flu—I call it Hell!

                                --Selected