Tuesday, 9 September 2008

Of Quacksalvers & Leechers

Fare ye well, Doctor Goldstein, ( and Good Riddance be )
My tributes to Providence, thou shalt ne’er Attend on Me,
If Chance saw one Comatose, or in some Invalid state,
With you as my Physician, what would be mine Fate ?

So fare ye well, Mister Goldstein, stripped of thy titled rank,
The Profession of Medicine forfeit, and just yourself to thank,
Thy Expatriate peers guffaw, label thee a failed proctologist,
Whose status shouldn’t hath risen above Trainee Zoologist;
Bound to treating aardvarks, and other obscure noxious pets,
Or pastoral ruminant bovines, alike most provincial Vet’s.

The Curse of Ignominy dogs Exiled Cormorant types,
Immersed in alcoholic hazes, uttering choleric gripes,
Imbibing to Saturation point on the local rum and gin,
A most hackneyed pastime, ‘twas bound to do thee in.

Thy last Tort the Grand Finale to a Scandalized Career,
With drunken diagnostics best reserved for a Steer,
But not the Consul’s wife, She of Hypochondriac sway,
( And a spot of Nymphomania when her old man’s away )
Pronounced her genital itch as a common vaginal yeast
While on her uterine gear, et al, Syphilis took its Feast,
Devouring her pudenda with a host of septic chancres,
But Streptomycin cured her, and two infected bankers,
Who gave counsel on investments a month or so before,
Unaware she had more diseases than a Saigon whore.
Thank the Lord Almighty she sought a second opinion
Outside the feckless halls of your Hippocratic dominion.

T’was just the final stick that broke this camel’s back,
Madam afflicted with a misdiagnosed gangrenous crack;
For Legion are the numbers who suffered a similar fate,
With more than one appearing before Heaven’s Gate.
Alike poor Carruthers, you declared Whipple’s Disease,
While in agonizing spasms he’s prostrate on his knees,
The autopsy revealed Constipation, of the chronic variety,
A swift enema’s application to resolve physical anxiety,
Your nostrum a Pancreatectomy, he died under anesthetic,
Farewell Butcher Goldstein, we find thy formulas pathetic.

Why do such derelicts venture to these far, tropical shores,
To veil piteous short-comings, and shed a Christian’s mores ?
Cast adrift to sink or swim as Civilization’s dross and pariahs,
Ostracized by their own genus, seek Welcome at our fires !
The 3-M’s Philosophy marks All who Drink until they Die,
Mercenaries, Missionaries and Misfits may prudently apply
In your own particular case, with the latter M most suited;
Praise God the Medical Bar saw thee exposed and booted.

What of Jenkins’ sore throat, you assumed a monsoon cold,
Diphtheria was his malady, when a second diagnosis told;
Even at the local Synagogue you’ve earned Just Derision
For screwing up the Rothschild tribe’s Scion’s circumcision.
But Rabbi Cohen judged you square and really ne’er forgave
Since urinating in the Shule, then on Cantor Levi’s grave,
One might claim incontinence, or admit to total inebriation,
But repetitions of such Improprieties didn’t Salve thy Situation.

Who blamed Dawkins’ inability to raise a gorged erection
On the premise of stricken by a latent urinary tract infection,
Aye, the ladies grieve old Dawkins, he was a superb dancer,
Albeit recently deceased, from a malignant Prostate Cancer.
At his inquest you Testified, since his previous Examination,
He must have Developed some type of Dire Complication.

Adios Mister Goldstein, we can tolerate thee no longer,
You’re booked on the next Packet bound for Rarotonga,
Stumble up the gangway now, rheumy eyes downcast,
Unslung the ship’s moorings, that wave will be thee last,
For alcoholism rules thy face, due liquor’s overloading,
A Senectuous Visage, marked by Death’s foreboding.

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