By Joel Seppala
I saw the lone drop of spittle
It gleamed brightly, though little
As through the air it flew
A perfect arc
Like an old lawn dart
Right on to a fry or two
Who knows what disease it carried
How hideous, how scary
From the stranger’s beard-ringed mouth
My eyes followed its wicked path
And how I wish now I hadn’t
Helpless was I to stop it
I said nothing but “Thanks”
As my jaw and heart sank
To my infected tray below
Back at my seat I stared at my fries
All but certain of my mortal demise
The only question was, of what ‘itis
I though of my shots
My arms covered in dots
And hoped they all were still working
It’s been now three days
I don’t yet have the plague
But what if inside me it’s lurking
An epic battle for control of my body
Blue skies or gray, healthy or snotty
Only time will tell…
How this spittle tale ends
How my fortune bends
From the lips of my bearded fry spitter
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