‘Twas sterile, yet the slippery sutures
Did twist and tumble with every shake
All flimsy were the filaments
And the tiny threads soon out-gave
And thus the vicious needle poked right through
Out of the flesh, and into soft skin
Blood merged with blood, a battle unseen,
The foreign product of an untimely Sin
“Beware the Surgery Core, my son!
The hands that tie, the blades which snap!
Beware the needlestick injuries, and shun you must
The hair that pokes out beneath your cap!”
He took the cautery pen in hand
Long time the herniated foe he fought —
And then he rested in the locker rooms
And stood awhile in as if deep in thought.
And then, as if in godlike splendour he stood,
Mighty Surgeon, with eyes of flame,
Came running back into the operating room
And scrubbed-in four times as he came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The scalpel blade went snicker-snack!
He cauterised, and went inside
And then retracted all of it back!
“And hast thou met the Surgeons, my son?
Come to the books, my beamish boy!
O post-call day! Huzzah! Hooray!”
He chortled in his joy.
‘Twas brilliant, yes, the surgeon at work,
How his hand twisted and tied in its wake
All flimsy were the suture strings
But not a single one did he break