The Cough

A strange sound echoes through the night,
Through the morning, and right up to the evening
It's a now common plight,
That leaves her complaining

For a fortnight it has hung out,
Relentless in it's aim
It's something to talk about,
Or so that's the claim

There's a pain in the gut,
Due to shaken ribcages,
She feels like she's stuck in a hut,
Where there's a table full of pages!

The cough, it comes and goes,
It stays, enough to torture,
Even if she stands on her toes,
The cough, it's there to endure.