Posted on 13 July 2007
I found this on the internet somewhere while trawling about for another poem. I wish I’d made a note of who wrote it. It certainly wasn’t me.
Dr. Death
When Doctor Death’s out visiting
Maybe he’ll call on you today
And leave the neighbours pondering
How suddenly you passed away.
You seemed quite well, and then you died.
The hearses glide down every street
Where people in the town of Hyde
And Doctor Death have chanced to meet.
The first one greets him at her door.
The second doesn’t cry or cringe.
Another pulls her sleeve up for
Kind Doctor Death with his syringe.
A needle pricks the arm she bared
So simply and obediently.
She had no reason to be scared,
And now she’s dead on her settee.
Kind Doctor Death is much admired.
He’s rarely tired or agitated.
He signs the paperwork required
To get the evidence cremated.
The reaper’s scythe goes swinging on,
Swiftly, sharply, no time to rust,
His black cowl hideous upon
The doctor they had come to trust.
For all his arrogant abuse
Of life and hope for healing care
He never offers an excuse.
Not one. Not even to declare:
“My way, their dignity’s ensured.
What would they sooner have instead?
The underfunded general ward?
The geriatric cattle-shed?”
His mind’s a levelled graveyard, where
No human feelings can impinge.
So there is nothing left to scare
Kind Doctor Death with his syringe.