Song: Good Old Doctor Dodson Poem by Dave SmithWhite

Though he's Boswell to my Johnson,
He knew not my secret flight.
But like Peyps to burning London,
He marked that ghastly night.
In print he told of my demise,
Beneath those Tyrol Falls.
Good old Doctor Dodson;
Not short on brain or balls.

Good old Doctor Dodson. He's the butter in my ghee.
My favorite and an odds on, voice of sanity.
Good old Doctor Dodson. A good old doctor, he
Really is a godsend, devoid of vanity.

He's the cat's meow and timbre,
In my discordant violin.
His patience somehow tempers,
My depressed black moods within.
He pours oil upon my waters,
And calms my boiling squalls.
Good old Doctor Dodson;
Not short on brain or balls.

Good old Doctor Dodson. A good old doctor, he
Rescues arcane flotsam from my raging storm and sea.
Good old Doctor Dodson. A good old doctor, he
Would cure my sweet addiction with wit and sympathy.

He sees the method in my madness,
And delights; his eyes a-gleam.
He fills my heart with gladness,
For together, we're a team.
As if by magic revelation,
I astound him overall.
Good old Doctor Dodson;
And yes he does house-calls!

Good old Doctor Dodson. He's the sugar in my tea.
The subjects that he writes on, inform my history.
Good old Doctor Dodson. A good old doctor, he
Shows my modus - hands on - to fathom mystery.

He's the mellow in my drama;
He's a mirror for the times.
His pen, the mighty armor,
To shield the weak from crime.
And enamored by adventures,
His writing so recalls:
Good old Doctor Dodson;
Not short on brain or balls.

Good old Doctor Dodson. Restrains my manic glee.
He's a simple soul that plods on, with a quiet dignity.
Good old Doctor Dodson. His common touch, the key.
He's predictable and honest, with a true humanity!