Wheezing the Wraith by Peter Gidlund
There is a ghastly thing inside of me,
haunting me every few months,
it itches and scratches, announcing my
arrival, heralding my company,
he calls attention to me at the least
opportune moments. I can suck on a
cherry flavored charm to briefly delay
his rustling and rolling,
but I just can't
make my
cough
drop.
The ghoul must be Phelgmish,
it travels between nations and peoples,
fills his passport of tonics and remedies,
and he occasionally leaves behind
souvenirs of his travels from abroad,
traces of his ectoplasm, from
Russians, Germans, Libyans, and Czechs.
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