On the visit of the doctors to my cell

The doctors are coming,
this odd, mystic morning
to cart our corpses to the ruling
magician at whose bland bidding
hospitals become clinics become
mortuaries and surgeons morticians
dancing with military politicians
to band hits of a cruel symphony
makes of a crude cacophony
finetuning physicians phoney.


Silence Would Be Treason Copyright © 2018 by Íde Corley, Helen Fallon, and Laurence Cox. All Rights Reserved.

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