The Doctor is sick
He is sick of himself,
Doctor that no ripe-rot
Report back that he is
Sick of his sickness

His metis cannot cure him
Neither can pumice-stone
To his ailment and
Gangrenous retards.

He awaits groping in the
Dark days sternly intent
For cure. Ineluctable
He lies on death-bed
In the ailing times,
Uncured.

That no more therapy for
Him in the presence of a
Therapist oh sickly Doc!

When power becomes reckless
Mind-slobber whetting one’s
Appetite for his own bellyful
That smash,grab and run off
And bellyache about nothing,
But himself

Who is he sick Doctor?
sick,ailing and retarding
Into derangement of mental
Hiccups.