The Recluse Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

'Hepatomegaly, my friend',
the doctor said to the recluse,
'will turn cirrhosis in the end,
lay off that godforsaken booze.'

But Albert, the recluse went back
into the park that was his home.
He'd built himself a little shack
complete with a small garden gnome.

Inside a hollowed-out old tree
he kept a stash of Moonshine's best,
and battled there his misery,
a cough had settled in his chest.

The doctor was a silly fool,
he had not helped him in his plight.
Had sat there on his shiny stool
and squeezed his liver very tight.

Of course, like any good recluse
this one decided on his own
that he would keep his right to choose
and later on, could get a clone.

Thus he would live inside the park
forever and another day,
and drink until the sky was dark.
From doctors he would stay away.