the doctors are silly
they're naive, and believe everything you tell them -
have you noticed?

I said I was sick
and had a fever
and he asked me to stick my tongue out
(see, he'd already believed me)
and he put some wood, and then some glass on my tongue
and he said, "say:'AAAAH'"
(we obviously got a doctor here
who's confused - hey, are you a doctor
or are you a Year 1 English Teacher teaching vowels?)

and then  he looked at these strange instruments
most sagaciously (just to keep up the pretence;
just to impress me, you know)
and declared most solemnly:
"You are sick.
You have a fever."
(Hey - hello! That's what I told you!
tell me something new!)

but the amazing thing is
this doctor convinced me I was actually sick
such was the power of his words
(see, you know those miracle workers?
they get you well with their words
but doctors - they get you sick with their rhetoric -
oh man, doctors really make me sick!)

And I felt sick too...I had come in just to humour my doctor
but now he'd convinced me I was really sick;
he takes my lie and then convinces me of my own lie
- boy, those doctors, you must admit
they might make you sick
but they really got the medicine man's trick!

Still, my doctor’s a sucker,
cos, let’s not forget, it’s I who told him I was sick -
he's naive, and believes everything I tell him

In summer, a valley so green, thick in veridian
a pond looking on, sits atop the world - waiting for no one
The sun through an open window, so soon to be gone
hills above, some days ago
covered in whitest snow

Wings beat to overtake.
Now, above you like a fire shot
In a silent film the rush begins.
Wings fold inward, the air turrents,
Streams, as a ball swirling in a tube,
Grey bullet in the barrel,
The slide to the **** and the talons,
Make their mark before the hitch.
Soft plosives bearly sounding,
Crake, blood cupped in the claws,
From the breast and the rose  
Heart, now in a tail spin,  

Nostrils whine in the fall.  
No jury just but a sup of the faded  
Heart by one raging one.  
The wilted wings are stirring  
To the last as the pointed  
Wingman ferries, the wholly bred,
Quarry of perfection, jolts  
And jilts, and His scythe of feathers
Holds sway in the whirl.
As the God-made creature
From high heaven flies
The mourning dove must die.