The Famous Pathologist Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

His letterhead showed five degrees
post nominals like swarming bees.
A summary of past achievement
this morning's subject was bereavement.

A man of twenty-seven had
(blue eyes and quite a handsome lad)
first emptied what was left inside
a bottle, then shot up a ride.

You see, in modern times they will
experiment with drugs that kill.
The autopsy, which is required
was scheduled for the much admired

Pathologist, the region's best.
They said the addict had been blessed
to have these learned fingers roam
his sad remains. An epitome

of what the scum of humankind
believes, it boggled his great mind.
He did perform each step as planned
ran tests for substances, all banned.

Cut slices off the body's heart
and placed them like a work of art
inside big jars of formalin.
At last, he finished with a grin.

He sat and started the dictation
it followed every operation.
And in his mind he had succeeded
his patients, though, no longer needed

were all allowed to truly die.
And no one asked the question 'Why'
As you can gather, some respect
is common sense when you dissect

a human being -sheer routine,
but this great man was a machine.
He saw his job to make much dough
and had become a techno-pro.

Yet for his subjects did not care
he had no thoughts to ever share.
This day, another dull routine
he washed and shaved, already keen

to take the wife to lobster dinner
forgot this young pathetic sinner.
A man like this, he swims in pride
and when he got to the outside

he passed the addict's family
but did not see their misery.
The autopsy report, now ready
and on the cover it read EDDY.

There was no mention, other than
that he had been a stupid man.
The family relived the terror,
when reading, they observed the error.

All facts would always be the same,
but EDDIE was his real name.