"3DocsRap," by Eben

NORTHWEST POETRY PRESENTS:

"3DocsRap," A Tour of the Medical Profession by Eben

The first,* he cared to make house calls;

No “waiting game” within his walls;

He went to where his patients lay,

healing with his skillful way.

His aid to patients held him late,

and sleepless too-- his own could wait.

They could count on this fine doctor

to tend each ill or child’s sore.

Driving in his bright, red car,

to him no distance was too far.

How different was his example

we need to ponder and to mull.

The second doctor rules the day.

Hippocratic? Ha! Passe!

This fellow turns away

the poor widow who cannot pay

the high, stiff fines fees charged every time

he renders service worth a dime.

An hour wait’s not reckoned much,

the line is long--no cure for such!

“Tell me, dear, what ails you,

but make it quick, one minute, two.”

Insured, you get expensive treatment

so he can make one more investment;

Single wides in Hooverville?

Another way to make a kill.

Medicaid takes a hard hit

like a bomb right where you sit;

Soak the system to the hilt

(can this type feel guilt?).

Taxpayers must all chip in

for this racket they can’t win;

we all must pay his padded bill,

the total tab can make you ill.

Yet his colleague goes one worse,

he drives a long, black, silent hearse;

His name we know-- Kevorkian

--he masquerades as compassion.

“Let me be God, I’ll end your pain;

To suffer, dear, is quite insane.

I’ll even come to your bed- side,

no messy gun or cyanide.

Forty souls I’ve offed so far,

I hope much more will cross my bar.

Who cares about ‘THOU SHALT NOT KILL’

when I have just the perfect pill?

Take it with some nice orange juice,

it works far better than the noose.

Soon, when my kind gets its way,

relatives will win full say;

Old or sick, disabled too,

will take my kill at other’s cue.”

From forty on to millions more,

a holocaust will cram Death’s door;

Anything will furnish cause to end it all,

and just because this doctor scorned God’s sacred law

that shields the lamb from the lion’s jaw.

(Chorus of the Wannabe Dead):

Doctor, Doctor, kill my pain;

Make double sure I won’t hurt again.

Take me out before my time,

do your duty-- it’s no crime, it’s no crime.**

*************************************

*the late Dr. Blizard of Puyallup, or any doctor that made house calls to patients;

**married persons and relatives of the Not-Wannabes may replace first person “my/I/me/my” pronouns in the Chorus with “his/he/him/his” or “her/she/her/her”. Ecclesiastes 3:1,2

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