‘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

 

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