At work, he wears a smart, white coat,
the blood stains show up red,
and if he nicks an artery
a lot more blood is shed.
The gloves he wears are latex ones
he snaps them on each day,
a mask obscures his mouth and nose
to keep the germs at bay.
His nurses flit around him, like
a group of flapping hens,
they often hang around outside
by his Mercedes Benz.
It’s good to be a doctor, but
a surgeon’s one step further,
he slices into flesh without
a qualm — without a murmur.
They hand him scalpel, clamp and pads
to mop up all the mess,
to them he’s God — he knows no ill,
his hands are heaven-blessed.
And then he leaves the theatre,
puts on his coat and hat…
but in his pockets, he takes home
some scraps to feed the cat.