The shares have gone up on my doctor:
He reached down and felt my debentures.
He thinks I should rest, but be sure to invest
In the best of his very own ventures.
His stethoscope hangs by reception,
And is made out of silver and gold:
When he looked at my tootsie, he said that the FTSE
Might dither, but he would be bold.
Still, why does he dabble in illness?
In ague, in plague and in pox?
Why not throw some wealth at the people whose health
Will ensure a fair price for our stocks?
A surgery's horribly sickly:
No fortune inside it, no, sirs!
There's better commission for general practitioners
Who want to be entrepreneurs.
The doctor should see you but charge you,
Give zig-zags of chart for a laugh:
What peaks and what troughs! (The specialist coughs,
It's really a cardiograph.)
Some of you may say, 'You're cynical,'
But really I'm full of concern
That the high point or pinnacle of all that is clinical
May not give the proper return.