E.R.

Get on your pants!

you're going to be seen,

Chest pain like that

is sweaty and mean.

They took you right in,

I knew not your heart,

For a Paul Bunyan man

is a work of art.  

And art does not die

it may lose an ear

For brushes and paint

can so make one fear.

You lay on the cot

pain number seven,

But yet slept your way

snoring to heaven.

Injections of morphine

just give him wine!!

Still number seven,

and I'm ready to dine!.

I held your hand

from my hard little chair

And after a while

told the nurse to be fair. 

Check your bladder I say,

gall that would be

I'm so darn smart

I read Web MD.!

On the orders already,

she said with a frown

Annoyed that I knew

their band-aids not found.

 Down to the room

where the metal is cold

they checked your chest

for stones made of gold.

Yep, too much fried chicken,

and apple pan dowdy,

had made Paul Bunyan

not quite so rowdy.  

Back to your nurse

and pain number seven,

I think your brain

was stuck on nurse Evelyn.

 I dare say the doctor

ordered new drugs

Your pain went to one

and you were quite snug.

  Back home we sailed

out the hospital door

Your arm tight around me

like a girlfriend adored.  

I still remember the love

from your beating heart

when you found out you had one,

from Van Gogh's art.  

(c) april 24 2010 Carol R.