All That Will Be Left

I'm sorry, how did it go. Sure you know that monster op? Do you remember that old apothecary's shop? Yes, a glass kaleidoscope- of coloured moraines? Remember those-old-folk rattling like coffin nails. Whatever happened to that- greasy-haired apprentice? 'Sure he's now qualified, works in some pharmacy chemists.' And that receptionist- who wore that sexy little red spotted-dress? 'Believe she had low-standards, was-mutton undress' You mean mutton-dressed-as-lamb, you still on that diazepam: 'I am when I can get it- without having a cardiogram.' My ailments there much better thanks; I guess I'm healing. 'But isn't that receptionists -here quite unfeeling, isn't she? ' 'I went to the docs the other day nothings the same.' He's giving me pills for pills, and more than I can name. Each counteracts the other, guess someone's getting rich now, this involuntary twitch has a 2nd minor twitch. What's your stock in trade nowadays? Have you recently retired? 'Sir! I like these here painkillers has long-expired to work.' Your hands are all waxy you're like-a-waxwork mannequin. All that will-be-left soon is that- surgeon's keyhole-needlework. And a smile leaning to one side that- says you still haven't learnt what to do when nothing really works.