The doctor’s holds a fear for me.

I tend to get quite shy.

I don’t like to tell my symptoms,

For fear of his reply.

 

So, I’m thankful that my doctor

Is a man who is well read,

Because it’s through the means of fiction

That I convey what must be said.

 

“A trifle Hans Castorp today,”

Is my initial diagnosis.

The doctor listens to my chest, and says:

“It’s not tuberculosis.”

 

He rummages through a

Magic Mountain of papers in a tray;

Writes out a brief prescription

And sends me on my way.

 

But I’m soon back and this time,

It’s really, really bad.

I tell him: “I feel like the sheep in

Far from the Madding Crowd.”

 

“Wind,” says the doctor loudly,

And he is probably correct.

I know that he is busy,

But he can be awfully direct.

 

Next day, and I am back again,

This time with a limp.

The doctor eyes me sceptically;

Makes me feel somewhat a wimp.

 

“Paul Sheldon,” I explain to him,

“This leg is proper Misery.”

He feels the limb, but overall,

His examination’s very cursory.

 

One last attempt and do you know

I’d scarcely mentioned “Mrs Dalloway.”

When he pointed to the open door:

“The psychiatrist’s down the hallway.”

 

© Fergus Longfellow

Fergus Longfellow gets quite nervous visiting his doctor.