Whistler

I caught something, there’s no doubt
If I could, I’d shout it out,
But I can’t, because I have Laryngitis,
I am coughing up a storm
There’s no fever, I’m not warm,
If you wish to stay healthy, don’t invite us.

Coughing for an hour
Oh yes, within my power,
Expectorating stuff described as gloop,
Barking like a seal
Has no degree of sex appeal,
No matter what you say, I think it’s Croup.

As a child, I would whistle
When my throat felt like Thistle,
My parents would wonder, “What is it?”
The Medical snoop
Would declare, “Oh, that’s Croup”,
And twenty-five dollars, for the visit.

They placed me in a foggy tent
To placate and prevent,
An early demise, “Oh, poor child”,
In a week or two, I was better
Right down to the letter,
Rambunctious I was, but not wild.

Sixty years later, I recollect
A slice of memory I detect,
A whistling cough, as I sit on the stoop,
My ghostly Mother appears
To place garlic in my ears,
“Once again, my little boy, you have Croup”.

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