The Doctor

Come hither, all ill, all broken and cursed,

So long as there’s plenty of coin in your purse.

I’ll nurse you to wellness, bring souls back to life,

Find fortunes in fever, slash costs with my knife;

Surgical sorcery bends disease to deplete,

But only as long as your wallet’s elite.

 

Fear no plague, fear no famine,

On my bloodied bed examined;

I split humours, shatter tumours –

Come, sweet victims; care consumers,

I’ll make you well, good health I sell,

Though fail to pay, it’s straight to hell.

 

Protected by my mask so grand,

Your every asset my one demand;

I only want to make you better,

It matters little if I make you debtor

To kings or queens that you rely;

It’s not my fault if you all die.

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