Edgar Albert Guest

(20 August 1881 - 5 August 1959 / Birmingham / England)

The Doctor - Poem by Edgar Albert Guest

I don't see why Pa likes him so,
And seems so glad to have him come;
He jabs my ribs and wants to know
If here and there it's hurting some.
He holds my wrist, coz there are things
In there, which always jump and jerk,
Then, with a telephone he brings,
He listens to my breather work.

He taps my back and pinches me,
Then hangs a mirror on his head
And looks into my throat to see
What makes it hurt and if it's red.
Then on his knee he starts to write
And says to mother, with a smile:
'This ought to fix him up all right,
We'll cure him in a little while.'

I don't see why Pa likes him so.
Whenever I don't want to play
He says: 'The boy is sick, I know!
Let's get the doctor right away.'
And when he comes, he shakes his hand,
And hustles him upstairs to me,
And seems contented just to stand
Inside the room where he can see.

Then Pa says every time he goes:
'That's money I am glad to pay;
It's worth it, when a fellow knows
His pal will soon be up to play.'
But maybe if my Pa were me,
And had to take his pills and all,
He wouldn't be so glad to see
The doctor come to make a call.


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, August 20, 2014



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