Poem: Instruments of Torture

by Rebecca Stone

The doctor (who was my mother) said,

“Poor little love, go back to bed.

And take some paracetamol too,

You look like the walking dead.”

She was wrong, surprisingly, in what she said,

I felt much worse than the walking dead.

My skull was splitting open as though

It was pierced through by an arrow head.

Of course, my little sister decided,

Although she was seriously misguided,

That in order to master glorious Grade Two

On the oboe, outside my door she blew.

For two whole weeks a headache was prevalent,

Not helped by that instrument so malevolent.

She huffed and she puffed, all out of tune,

And wouldn’t be quiet all afternoon.

With my head finally clear, after days on death’s door,

I can’t think of an instrument I now hate more,

Yet Grade Two still rings throughout the household,

And that’s how I struggled through the Common Cold.