Sorry, Doc [sonnet]
Sorry, Doc, but it only made me worse.
That panacea recommended strong
by you was not only a tinctured curse
but also (speaking straightly) downright wrong.
What were you thinking when you wrote that note
prescribing what you said would be my cure?
You thought you’d found the perfect antidote;
I wonder how you could be so cocksure.
So no more pink placebos for my heart.
It’s tired and worn-out, well beyond repair.
This spectred form must live a life apart.
There is no course of treatment for despair.
(No need to diagnose my burned-out soul.
Into algiatry I must enroll).
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 