Embolism Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

A microscopic spec once sat
inside a cluster of brown fat.
When surgeon Doctor Cutoomuch
was slicing with a gentle touch
into the upper tissue layer
(inside he said a little prayer) .

And cutting now the outer skin
of a large vessel, with a grin
the scalpel did dislodge the speck
which travelled up toward the neck.

The blood stream is a crimson river,
the happy speck now passed the liver
and when it got close to the duct
the patient's chances surely sucked.

It plugged and closed the line of life,
there was a stab, like from a knife
and then the graph went very straight.
They turned it off - it was too late.