Sonnet for a Poetic Physician

“You ought to write,” she urged, “Speak truth in poems.”
“No thanks,” said I, “My life is at bedside.”
“But dear, you’ve got a tender soul to show’ems.”
“Ms. Prof, healed lives, not rhymes, will I provide.”

Turns out, the crazy bat gave counsel wise.
Full half a doctor’s task consists of words:
Exsanguinate, necrose, anaesthetise.
Put those in terms a patient’s mind can learn.

Take care to shun grandiloquent verbosity,
For speech alone won’t always save a life.
Inflamed appendix threatens all vivacity.
Its sole redress is surgeon’s steely knife.

Ol’ Williams might have stayed his patient’s grave
If fewer breaths to barrow red he gave.

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