Botched Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

There was no surgeon on the continent
whose skills were, in the least, comparable.
He stood now, as in trance, above the bowels,
just staring at the smelly cavity.
No, he was sure now, had been really, though
when first he glimpsed the grayish mess.
This bugger was a millionaire, but not for long,
he'd kick his money bucket very very soon.

' Assistant, close', he barked. And went
into the lounge to light a Camel cigarette.