June 6, 2017 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | LIFE, PETER'S WRITING | 1 Comment |

He had been a surgeon;

One of the best.

Now he’s a fugitive,

You know the rest.

Tis a technical bent,

The hand must be strong,

Some of his best work

Could not right the wrong.

Here’s a funeral scene

To mark a mishap;

His Practice declines,

The quack gets a slap.

He takes to the bottle,

He has a new view,

A fresh decree nisi

And a Google Review.

Kicked-off the campus

And out of his house,

With five star abuse

His Fund disendows.

“He said there’s no risk,”

The blogs richly lied,

And, gently cascading,

The stars scarified.

Soon even life

He could no more befriend;

I said that you knew

How this all had to end.

In a dark wood

So beloved of yore,

They found his remains,

Amid hellebore.

And pinned to his body

There found they a note,

Which led to a map

Tucked away in his coat.

This marked-out dwellings

Far beyond any help,

And occupants who

Had devised their last yelp;

Piles of corpses

And splayed, twisted limbs,

No warrant of safety

In their pseudonyms,

And as a memento,

Gold, plastic, bizarre;

Each remnant pinned to it

A small piece of a star.


1 Comment

  1. Reply

    Danny Beger

    June 9, 2017

    Ah, modern life.

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