“Statistically I should be dead,”
“Excuse me, what is that you said?”
“My forbear males in days of yore
Got cancer at about three score,
But didn't know until too late
And passed away at sixty-eight,
The victims of some errant gene,
Unsuspected and unseen.
The prostate felt the first attack,
Then cancer spread to front and back.
The doctors then ascribed the cause
To old age and to Nature”s laws;
Or, maybe it was more complex,
And had to do with too much sex?”
Myself, who'd led a blameless life,
With blameless kids and blameless wife,
At sixty was appalled to learn
I had the problem in my turn.
The time was ripe,the gene switched on,
And there was I damn nearly gone,
Confirmed with signs of threatening tumor
That taxed my faltering sense of humour.
I made my will, I said “good-bye,”
My friends had barely one dry eye.
I told my sons about the symptoms,
Dispensed to them my worldly wisdoms.
And then appeared the legendary,
The Seventh US Carvery!
Equipped with scalpel and with mask,
And more than equal to the task:
Doctor Regan, hero, man of vision,
The master of precise incision,
Who's battled all the worst prostates
Throughout these great United States;
Who quietly heals, pray let me note,
While others boast and self-promote;
A skilful surgeon, credit he
To Georgetown University.
“Fear not”, said he, “I'll see you through,
I guarantee you good as new.”
He cut, I slept, and he, adept,
His promises he more than kept.
I woke, I hurt, the feeling passed,
And I was on my feet at last.
Five years have gone, you'd never guess
That I was ever in that mess.
I'm hale and fit and full of life.
Don't take my word, just ask my wife.