The Doctor's Song

I suppose you're pale and breathless and standing at death's door,
And if I don't attend you, you'll be dying on the floor,
It is my daily hazard, and really, truth to tell,
I'd love to meet a patient who tells me he is well,
His lumbago isn't killing him, his bunions playing up,
And who doesn't leave his DNA by peeing in a cup.
I'm sick of all you sickies, malingering every day,
Who want a pill for everything you think or do or say,
So pack your rancid troubles, and vamoose, skedaddle, hop,
And dump your sorry carcase at the undertaker's shop.

Love 'Em Or Hate 'Em

Those who fondly imagine that the doctor-patient relationship is one of mutual respect will be shocked by the utter contempt that the doctor in this poem feels for his patients.


Medical Poems


Max Scratchmann

Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved