Tuesday, April 19, 2005


Today’s poetic masterpiece (ahem) is in honor of one of my Medical Buddies. One session with this guy could cure the Famously Constipated dooce™ of all her problems.

Why I Admira Ira,
or How To Rack Up a G.I. Bill

As regular as income tax,
I go to visit Doctor Flax.
He plumbs the deepest depths of me,
My duodenum for to see.
He brooks no ifs or ands or buts,
While he investigates my guts.
My innards are an open book:
With silver tube he takes a look.
I will not scream or moan or howl
While Dr. Flax checks out my bowel.
My liver loves his healing hand,
As does my pancreatic gland.
O Ira, master of your art,
Cure my digestion; win my heart.

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