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| Here is his disease, Mrs. Johnson Wrapped neatly in a package Tied with statistics and prognosis Delivered on your doorstep With the X-ray that showed nothing. Here with it, his labwork I can show you how his sodium rose then dove then rose then calmed I can stamp on a theory He wasn't a fighter He was too young He was too old It doesn't matter We will still cry The strings will unravel The truth flies in our face He has no more pain I say To tidy things up To comfort you....and me From the But why? I don't know
Jana Upshaw |