and in a fit,
demurely hands clasped tight i sit
waiting for the surgens to call
to invite me down the spiraling hall
where i'll be finally diagnosed
a writing neither shakespeare prose
nor as wordly as poe
but at least then, i'll finally know
what illness it is of mine
which is so rapidly ticking away my time
excruciating, all of my might
the fever engulfed with spite
finally to know what the heaven's is up with me
the surgen's words, to set me free
an ungainly yonder
a perpetual, intellectual ponder
and one of those things called x rays to conclude
my hands still tapping
the rapture, still rapping
anticipation takes its one last bite
and amongst the throng of guests,
or to be frank, a stagger of garaluous pests
the doctor calls my name at last,
though more a chant it is to i,
a cry from christ, a fable, a lulaby
in that very moment, nature takes its cause
his words more tenacious
than myra hindley in the moors
do you know what it is that he said?
whilst i accepted that soon i was to be dead
do you know what the doctor said to i?
you see, for he said, that soon i am not to die
that there is no sickness, no nasea, no pitiless pain
that simply, my heartbeat commonly tame
my liver, my arterys, my stealth
are of nothing other than immaculate heath
eventually, the doctor quitetly mutters to me
boy, what do you think is wrong?
the stupidity of the question almost stabbed
he may as well of asked
was jack the ripper hard to find?
who you you think played jekyll?
did you know i played hyde?
oh why oh why, must this be
that i must suffer this curse, that is me