Entered the Room—dressed out in Green—
The Doctor—with his peculiar Machine—
Scalpel in Hand—and with utmost Precision—
He examined the Patient—and made an Incision.
And the Clock ticked on—behind the Glass screen.

He sliced at Tissue—scarred by horrid Gangrene
Yet as Hours passed—he remained most serene—
Dabbing at beads on his Brow—deeply furrowed—
He reminded himself—to always be thorough.
And the Clock ticked on—behind the Glass screen.

Suddenly, in a Turn of Events—unforeseen—
There came a flat Monotone—from the peculiar Machine.
The Doctor discarded his Gloves—with a Splat,
Doffed his gray Mask—sighed, “Well, that’s that.”
And the Clock ticked on—behind the Glass screen.
The Assistants with haste—carried out the Routine.
They replaced the Sheets—and sponged the Room clean.
The next Patient was wheeled in—with a violent Jerk—
The Doctor wiped off his Blade—and got back to work.
And the Clock ticked on—behind the Glass screen.