We take for granted the ability to speak
Until we’re ill and all that comes out is a squeak
We open our mouth to express a thought
We might cry and scream if we are overwrought
We laugh, we narrate, we question, we sing
Words are wonderful, the clarity they bring
When we can’t voice a thought or a concept
We get frustrated, annoyed or upset
Laryngitis is when our voice has gone hoarse
They’re rough and squeaky those sounds we must force
Laryngitis is an inflammation of the vocal chords
They say silence is golden, but where’s the reward?
Perhaps we could use a speech-generating device
With a voice like Stephen Hawking, that would be nice
Instead we will shut up and rest our poor voice
Really, we don’t see that there is much choice!