Doctor, Doctor

Doctor, Doctor
©copyright 2004 Bonita M Quesinberry, R.C.


"To all the Greek gods and goddesses,
I make a solemn pledge
that I will never do harm to man;
surg'ry to be my hedge."

Doctor, doctor, give man's little pills
to test their healing might;
or, on to the operating room,
where you cut out the blight.

Now, if perchance, we die anyway,
Doc will say it was Christ's bid;
that only God knows why the man died.
All Doc could do, he did.

Doctor, doctor, you merely practice,
and we are guinea pigs.
You call us patients, so slow to die;
for your healing's death-rigged.

You studied pagan health practices
and vowed to their false gods;
but, when their poisonous ways bring death,
then you point to One God.

Doctor, doctor, bury your mistakes
and grieve with their close kin;
for you just control population
and their money you win.

Our Creator Father is who heals
that which only He formed.
He told us what to eat, well or sick;
yet, most. . . to man conform.

Doctor, doctor, no doubt we all die:
young or old, each the same;
but, we don't have to die weak and sick
by your drugs of no gain.

You say, "I treat your many symptoms,"
never touching the source,
while you turn to heathen callousness
and curse God's herbal force.

Doctor, doctor, set bones and stitch wounds,
but no more and no less;
for you did not create our bodies.
More is a wicked guess.