You told me it would be all right
that we could sing some "Silent Night,"
but with my tonsils taken out
I had no means with which to shout
and so I sit here, hospitalized
laying ’bout on creamy thighs
that get more doughy every hour
I fail to move by my own power.
This doctor’s visit is too long
and poorly timed – "Not that old song!"
It’s sad, it’s stale; I’m not my best
as parts of me are stripped, I rest
and wish that soon, when I’s escapes
it will precede the reindeer’s traipse
through every continent and land
bringing joy and toys to boys and.. and…?
I hope when I am out of here
I’ll need to dress in warmer gear
and it’ll still be winter, see,
with snow and gifts under the tree
and I shall live so happily
away from hospitals and free
and off to live without a gown
– oh, then, I’d never wear a frown.
I cannot wait when I can shout:
"Mercy Clinic; I’ve checked out!"