Once I loved such a shattering physician,
quite the best -looking doctor in the state.
He looked after my physical condition,
and his bedside manner was great.
When I gaze up and see him there above me,
looking less like a doctor than a
Turk,
I was tempted to whisper, do you love me,
or do you merely love your work?
He said my bronchial tubes were in trance,
my epiglottis filled him with glee.
He simply loved my larynx, and went wild about my pharynx,
but he never said he loved me.
He said my epidermis was dolly,
and found my blood vessel was pussy.
He went through wild ecstasy when I showed him my lymphatic,
but he never said he loved me.
And though, doubt, it was not very smart of me,
I kept on a -rackin' my soul to figure out why he loved every part of me, and yet not me as a whole.
With my esophagus, he was ravaged,
enthusiastic to a degree.
He said it was just enormous, my appendix was enormous,
but he never said he loved me.
He said my cerebellum was brilliant,
and my cerebrum far from
NG.
I know he thought a lot of my medulla oblongata,
but he never said he loved me.
He said my maxillaries were marvelous,
and found my sternum stunning too.
He did a double hurdle when I shook my pelvic girdle,
but he never said he loved me.
He seemed amused when he first made a test
of me to further his medical arms.
Yet he refused when he fixed up the rest
of me to cure that ache in my heart.
I know he thought my pancreas perfect,
and for my spleen was keen as could be.
He said of all his sweeties,
I'm the sweetest diabetes
But he never said he loved me