Dear Doctor, would you tell me please
why your computer gets attention.
I came to you with MY disease,
you listened vaguely, not to mention,
your stethoscope was not in use,
you glanced with style, but rather coldly
at me, the patient, and my shoes.
I'd spoken up a little boldly,
it was compassion that I needed,
your time and all your expertise!
I see your hairline has receded
and that you have increased your fees,
two new machines are sitting proudly
behind your mahogany table.
And your computer, rather loudly,
spits information, is it able
to do all doctoring for you?
That on command, at your request
it tells you that the Asian flu
has got me and what kind of test
it wants me to have done today.
A fascinating modern age,
where humans can be freed from chores,
and motherboards are all the rage,
but me, I think they're little whores:
You have to pay to get your answers,
your eyes are glued to image-flickers,
a bell sounds when it finds those cancers.
I had expected that my nickers
would have to come off so you could
inspect what I have come here for.
Remember when you always would,
with interest, look at every sore?
I'm glad we had this little chat,
I'll pay the nurse on my way out.
Next time I'll wear my pretty hat,
perhaps you'll turn your chair about
to look at me and not that screen.
Oh, one more thing before I go:
I meant to ask you, what if things,
like nasties inside start to grow
and we will know it when it rings?
I may shed tears that you won't see
and mumble that I understand.
Will you then have some time for me,
to talk to me and hold my hand?