Even Doctor’s are my Friend,
for my Health I can Depend.
But I have a Bone to Pick,
in a Rhyme will Be the Trick.
Exam Rooms are Like a Cell,
though Can’t say I Know one Well.
Ushered in then Close the Door,
Wait from There is Quite a Chore.
Magazines with Turned up Pages,
Old to Oldest are the Stages.
In the Gowns I can’t Relax,
‘specially With the Breezy Backs.
Tables with That paper Sheet,
Stick to It is Such a Treat.
As I lie There want to Twitch,
wish There was a Message Switch.
A suggestion – not Bizarre,
Least should Be a Mini Bar.
Stocked with Stuff that would Omit,
memories ‘bout How long I Sit.
Then a Knock comes On my Door,
my Long Wait it Ain’t no More.
As it Opens – Foolish Hope,
they’ve Warmed Up their Stethoscope.