Aunt Hulda's Doctor, Professor Z. Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Professor Z., a brilliant teacher,
was in my school the oldest feature.
He told me early in the game
to not forget a patient's name.
And as to radiographs he said,
unless the sufferer is dead,
you must believe all that you see.
It makes us masters, you and me.

Too many people are naive
and only see what they believe.
He'd say by looking at your tongue
that only good folks will die young.
But life can also be a bitch-
who suffers longer? It's the rich!

I sent, to flatter the Professor,
my favourite aunt and predecessor
as patient to the learned man.
He did what any doctor can
but, at a loss to fix her ailments
(all cures resulted in derailments) ,
he would, in many consultations,
discuss her pains and strange sensations,
yet she persisted that her God
would soon give her that special nod.

He'd say 'Aunt Hulda, it is time;
be ready for your final climb, '
though many potions, tinctures, pills
were still prescribed for Hulda's ills.

She lived to be just ninety-nine
and died from lack of iodine,
or so they wrote of the deceased.
Her doc would have been very pleased
but he, Professor Z. had passed
while speaking at a telecast
when sets were huge and screens still round
though you had black and white and sound.

Aunt Hulda, when she met her fate
in silk and oak, she lay in state,
left in the pantry a large chest.
This was because my aunt knew best.

All medicines of ninety years
sat patiently, like musketeers
awaiting use, alas in vain.
Aunt Hulda much preferred Champagne