The LORD is my surgeon; I shall not want for artificial joints.
He maketh me to lie down in O.R.'s: he leadeth me beside the still anaesthesia.
He restoreth my hip: he inserteth into me tons of titanium for my knee's sake.
Yea, though I gimp through the valley of the shadow of rehab, I will fear no evil: for Oxycontin art with me; thy oxycodone and thy fentanyl they comfort me.
Thou preparest a workout before me in the presence of mine therapists: thou swellest my wounds with edemas; my joints runneth over.
Surely creakiness and misery shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of Medicare for ever.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem