The subject of a thousand nervous scenes
With only fondest hope forfending doom,
Amid the stacks of dog-eared magazines,
The family perches in the waiting room,
Inhaling disinfectant from the halls
Green washed in their standard, sterile hue,
They blankly wad the tissues into balls
And pray that there is something left to do;
A doctor and a stench waft through the door,
“We need one more transfusion, that’s the trick!
“The patient will be healthy as before,
“No more will our economy be sick.”
The corpse is dessicating, as we know,
So just the hair and nails appear to grow.
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