The young caddy is
catty before the second round.
"Doc, how many kick backs to buy these new
clubs?"
"They're a gift," the doctor replied.
"A corporate donation as it
were." he said smiling
"Your new metallic, grey BMW is sporty.
Another
corporate incentive," he insinuates handing him the next iron.
"Mrs. Bendemault's surgery put the keys in my pocket," the physician smirked.
"An
hour on the table and then three on the course," the doctor touted. "Oooh
yeah, the woman who died, I read about that.
What a shame," the caddy sighed
gravely.
"Medicine is not an exact science,
I always tell my patients," the
doctor said defensively.
"Before or after they die," the arrow struck it's
mark.
"Mal-practice makes Mel perfect," Doctor Melvin smarted off.
"Say doc,
what is it you're taking.
That's the third dose this hole," the caddy
observed.
"Uppers in the morning, downers by my bedside.
They keep me
going," the physician answered.
"A pharmaceutical replacement for a
conscience, that constantly needs a refill," came the sarcastic reply.
"Call
the hospital," Doctor Melvin said alarmed,
"I may have taken too many!"
"No," Satan replied. "You took just enough.
What do you want me to do with
this club?
The End
Go on to next poem by Mark Edgemon: Blurred Reality
Return to: The Works of Mark Edgemon
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