In sterile halls where silence reigns,
A hidden threat begins its gains,
With every breath, with every touch,
MRSA lingers, feared so much.
A strain of power, unseen by eye,
Resistant as the days go by,
Methicillin, once a shield,
Falls to this foe, forced to yield.
In hospitals, it makes its claim,
On weakened souls, it writes its name.
A wound, a breath, a needle’s press,
MRSA thrives in vulnerability’s dress.
But out beyond, in common air,
It finds its way with none to spare,
Through cuts and scrapes, it makes its call,
In boils and sores, it touches all.
From skin to blood, it swiftly creeps,
Through veins and lungs, it deeply seeps.
A simple cough, a tender scar,
It turns to battles fought from far.
Yet in our hands, the power lies,
In soap and care, in watchful eyes,
A barrier built by humble means,
To halt this pathogen unseen.
With care, we slow its deadly pace,
And keep it from a deeper space.
MRSA fights, but we defend,
With wisdom and resolve to end.
