I realised I had lost my voice,
"Laryngitis" the general cry.
"Go to the doctors, you have no choice."
That wisdom I could not deny.
First Dr Busk, then Mr Sharpe,
who told me the astonishing news.
"Spindle Cell Cancer, afraid it's a harp,"
said quietly, giving me clues.
The great man himself then had a look.
On his tip toes he peered down my throat.
"Do you tomorrow," as my pulse he took,
and his pen wrote a copious note.
He was as good as his word.
He gave me back life and breath.
Slowly but surely those strange words stirred.
I had side-stepped that premature death.
I now force air through a valve prosthetic,
but only half of it comes out of the mouth.
The words formed are quite pathetic,
the other forced air travels south.
With ones stomach distended, your grotty,
and the passing of wind a disgrace.
In song I could be Pavarotti,
if that valve was in the right place.