At the doctors

It’s Monday morning, The waiting room’s filled, With a diverse collection Of folk who feel ill. The screaming child That apparently last night, was lifeless and weak, Now squares up for a fight! The little old lady, In the chair by the door, Could be sleeping or dead I’m really not sure. The bronchial orchestra Tunes up once again The tickly lady coughs And the seal bark of men. The percussion of sniffs Adds to the throng Then a triumphant atishoo Brings an end to the song. And the doctor appears And calls out my name His weary eyes searching Through the sick and the lame. He smiles when he sees me And bids me “come in”, And in the background once more The orchestra begins.