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.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved