"I must get up and began my day," the Scribe said, sniveling and snuffing. "For I am the Scribe that records the King's words for all to be heard. No time to be sick, I must get up right away, no time to be sick– No, not today!"
So the Scribe rose, put on his clothes, and put on some tea, for his breakfast, you see. He had a bit of leftover cake, hardened a little from its night awake. He chewed and sneezed, crumbs flying in the breeze. The Scribe, he sneezed out so much more of the cake, so much more of the cake than he actually ate.
But, the Scribe was determined to write away, recording the events of the King's day. With his quill and parchment, the Scribe climbed the stairs, the King, he was waiting up there, in the Courtyard, with Knights all round, that is where the King was found.
The Scribe, he sat at his usual spot, where he could sit and see the lot, drawing and writing for all of time, what happened that day in the King's court. It seemed the knights were playing some kind of sport, with a small round disk that flew threw the air, a frisbee, we'd call it, if we were there.
The Scribe drew the scene that he did see, preserving it for all of prosperity. But as he drew, his nose ran and ran, running all the way down to the ground. It flooded the courtyard, ruining the game, but the Knights, they did play, just the same, wading in snot as green as the grass, throwing the frisbee round and round, right, left, up and down and back again.
The Scribe, he sneezed a terrible sneeze, one that shook even the King's knees. It blew through the Courtyard and dried up the snot, but the stench caused the spring flowers to rot. But the knights, they still played while the Scribe, he drew, for that was what they were supposed to do.
"Excuse me, Sire, and Knights of the Court, I didn't mean to ruin your sport – I'm just trying to write, as I am supposed to do, even though it seems I've come down with the flu!" The Scribe, he did apologize as he sneezed again, disturbing the skies.
Purple snot shot right of his nose, and landed on a Dragon's toes, a little spit landed in his eye, so the Dragon, he did torch the skies!
Fire rained down on the Courtyard below, and the King yelled, "Scribe, you have to go! More trouble you have caused, getting out of bed! Go back home and rest your head! Better to know when you need rest, then to go off trying to do you best. I appreciate your strength and dedication, but Script, it is time to take a vacation. Come back when you are feeling well, and then I'll have a tale to tell, which you can write down every word, so that the King's words will always be heard."
The Scribe sneezed again, blue snot put out the flames, leaving the flowers scorched and maimed.
"Sorry, Sire, you are right, and with that, I bid you goodnight," the Scribe said, bowing his head, then went downstairs and back to bed.
The Scribe, his snores, they rumbled to earth, as the Knights played again with delight and mirth. And so the Scribe rested once more, not rising until health was restored.