'Alright, my son,' says the man in white,
'What ails you on this rather bleak night?'

You open your mouth to give him an answer,
To reassure him that it's not cancer.

Instead of words to inform him of your illness,
You exhale some CO2, a seemingly unfullfillness

type of language,
not unlike a tounge slippage.

To make sure he heard you correctly,
he speaks, 'Can you speak ably?'

You then remember and feel like a fruit,
because of the fact that you are a mute.

Grasping this knowledge after a while,
the doctor gives you a gleaming little smile.

With a wave of his hand in the right direction,
A nurse tumbles over to end your session.

In one of your hands, in goes a bottle
In one of your ears, in goes 'Try out a vowel.'