The pain inane strikes through my head.
I try to sleep, I try to rest.
But pain has come, with all the rest.

It came along furtively,
Singing a song brutally.
Yet it is leaving with all its woes,
With dark tongue singing prose.

¿Por que si claro, por que!
¡Yo no hablo español?

Too late for Advil^®, too late for caffeine,
But all is well, except for, well,
This poem condemned by my inkwell, to hell¿

Non, attente! C'est retourné!