Poetry Archives

I don’t think men of eighty odd
      Should let a surgeon operate;
Better to pray for peace with God,
      And reconcile oneself to Fate:
At four-score years we really should
      Be quite prepared to go for good.

That’s what I told my husband but
      He had a hearty lust for life,
And so he let a surgeon cut
      Into his innards with a knife.
The sawbones swore: “The man’s so fat
      His kidneys take some getting at.”

And then (according to a nurse),
      They heard him petulantly say:
“Adipose tissue is curse:
      It’s hard to pack them tripes away.”
At last he did; sewed up the skin,
      But left, some say, a swab within.

I do not doubt it could be so,
      For Lester did not long survive.
But for mishap, I think with woe
      My hubby might still be alive.
And while they praise the surgeon’s skill,
      My home I’ve sold—to pay his bill.