In the hospital room I sat on a couch,
In wait for doctor to arrive,
And give his verdict on the disease
From which I suffer;
With which I now survive.

After four scores of life and one,
I sleep on a bed,
With a tray at my side and a chart above my head
Escorted by a nurse and the intravenous bottle,
In store to be operated upon.

The hospital is a beehive,
Doctor instructs and nurses drive.
And patients ebb and patients flow:
Some on wheel chairs as quiet as a model,
Some dripping liquids with a noisy sniffle,
Some heal up, others strive;
And many lugubrious but continue to piffle.