A/N: Special shout-out to Reiz16 for providing the idea for this poem! "A poem about a girl who is sick with a cold…" Unfortunately, this is not exactly about that. It's about a girl who's trying to catch a cold, with a butterfly net.

She ran outside in the rain, and so she screamed,


Wielding her net,

Her gleaming butterfly net,

Scaring people who thought it was an axe,

She screamed once more,


Suddenly, a big rock fell from the sky!

It was a hailstone with a frozen chair inside it,

Heavy enough to break through the ground

And crush the road,

Taking a car with it.

The owner of the car yelled,

"Hey, you, little girl!

Go away! It's not a good thing to be

Mere feet away from something that could have killed you!"

Then, this person realized that his car was crushed,

And since I'm an author, and therefore tyrant of this poem,

I have decided how the fiction shall be written.
Goodbye, person.

The girl, unaffected, stared up into the sky,


Scaring more people who were watching

From their dusty grey homes,

Homes that were not Sherlock's last name.

Alas, for then she made a realization!

"My net is too SMALL!" she cried in misery,

And rushed to the basement of the road.

There she found a small axe.

Thinking it was a butterfly net,

She caught the cold in the axe.

As a result, a bit broke off.

She started to cry,

And ended up with the happiest smiling!

She skipped away, a cold in her hand,

A cold filled with the leg of a chair.

Several others were scared,
And moments later,

27 of the citizens of Mesopotamia

Died from shock.

Unfortunately, this meant that they were psychic,

Because Mesopotamia is not,

And probably never will be,

New York.