Oesophagus

He lay there dying

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He lies on the ground choking,
Missing his favourite past time — smoking.
Nothing goes down, not food, not air
He tries to scream, no point, no one is here.
Even if they were, it won’t make a difference
He can’t make a sound to alert his friends
Food down the wrong pipe, he’s met his end
We assumed he’d need an extra lung, how wrong of us,
He lies there dying, needing a spare oesophagus.