There are some imbecilic clods
Who think that doctors are true gods.
They get down on their knobby knees
To worship schmucks who have MDs
And “specialists” are singled out
For lavish praise. These morons shout:
“Physicians are the source of life!
Their skills with suture, pill, and knife
Have saved us from a waiting casket!
Without their aid—Oh God, don’t ask it!—
We would have breathed our final breath
And passed into the jaws of death!”
These people love evaluations,
Endless gab and consultations;
The cold touch of a stethoscope
Swells their chests with throbbing hope.
They like to have blood pressure taken
And—if I am not mistaken—
When doctors touch them and say “Cough!”
These bozos frequently get off.
They go for CAT-scans, checkups, shots,
Biopsies of liver spots;
Tongue depressors, swabs, and cotton
Help these people feels less rotten.
A gurney washed with disinfectant
Leaves them cheered and more expectant
That they’re now safe from germs unseen,
And that their bill of health is clean.
The scent of alcohol and gauze
Comforts them, and that’s because
They think good health is sacrosanct
And medicine is to be thanked
For keeping them alive and well
And far off from the tolling bell.
This is a new kind of religion
That saves you from the waters Stygian
Through faith in pharmaceutic feasts,
And doctors are its sacred priests.
Such people are hubristic dolts.
You can’t escape the fatal bolts
That Zeus flings down at every mortal.
Some day you will go through the portal
Despite the cash you spend on cures.
Doctors may heal, but can’t insure
You won’t succumb to other ills
Regardless of their tests and pills.
Remember this about physicians:
They aren’t wizards or magicians.
They help the sick occasionally
But cannot cure mortality.
The Greeks recount a warning story
To humble a physician’s glory:
Asclepius, when he was trying
To treat a patient who was dying
Did his work so well the fellow
Regained health and lived. But yellow
Jaundice seized the jealous Fates—
They made Asclepius cross the gates
Of Hades as a substitute
For he who lived. That was the fruit
Of being a too-perfect doctor.
So don’t be a goddamned verkakte
Worshipper of Doc Kildare—
I doubt he’ll face the fatal stare
To keep you from flatlining out—
An MD’s heart is not that stout.