(h) Herr Doktor Dishes Out Bad News Poem by Francis Curran

Herr doktor, informs a hypochondriac,
She has but six months to live,
That her impending demise, was of such a brute, inexplicable bent,
That he could not bring himself to speak its name,
That it could be found on page forty eight
Inside the top drawer of her bedside chest.
He recommends the none payment of rent,
The toppling of a police mans hat,
The running up of a handsome debt,
The truth to her friend that yes she's fat,
A needle, a snort or a pipe of crack,
A one way ticket on a far flung jet,
And a right good seeing to from a local buck.
Shooting on home, flying up the stairs,
Frantic in flicking in skipping the page,
Page forty eight…death by old age.
The shock, dropping her dead on the spot.