Deacon Jones was always ailing,
And his many aches bewailing,
And old Doctor Grampus failing
To alleviate his ills.
With his mind in perturbation,
He called in, for consultation,
A young Hahnemann creation,
Who was known as ” Little Pills.”
Little Pills was heavy loaded.
And, by thirst for glory goaded,
How his rhetoric exploded.
When he met the Doctor old!
But his skill as rhetorician.
Held a second rate position.
With this young diagnostician.
And his words were free and bold :
” The patient has pleuritis.
And a grave appendicitis.
And an awful stomatitis.
That may push him to the wall;
While a marked endocarditis,
And a raging enteritis,
With a touch of meningitis,
Should be very filain to all
” And I judge that he is ailing —
By the way that he is railing.
And his miseries bewailing —
In a way that is a shame;
For his symptoms show metritis.
And an endo-cervicitis.
With hysteric ovaritis —
Once my grandma had the same
You can see he has colitis.
And a rheumatoid arthritis,
And, to cure his urethritis.
Will be worth a pile of wealth!
And, with all his ills and aching.
And his head with palsy shaking,
And his nervous system breaking,
He don ‘t feel quite well, himself!
” There are symptoms of iritis,
And a virulent phlebitis.
And his throat shows diptheritis,
As I very plainly see;
In extremis I believe him,
And I ‘d scorn me to deceive him,
When I say I can relieve him
With a ‘ 20 ‘ French bougee!
“Then the ninety-ninth dilution
Of a pellet in solution —
It will hasten resolution,
In a very wondrous way;
While the millionth trituration
Of a certain preparation.
Will complete his restoration,
At a very early day.”
Doctor Grampus sat and listened,
In his eye a tear-drop glistened —
First he ‘d shed since he was christened —
Then he fainted quite away;
But a sight so very shocking,
Didn ‘t stop the Medic’s talking,
But his tongue kept up tall walking
‘Til he ‘d said his little say.
But, poor Deacon Jones, enlightened.
At his case was badly frightened.
For his burden was not lightened
By this learned diatribe;
He rolled up his eyes in sorrow,
Chilling to the very narrow,
Whispered, “Good-bye, sweet, tomorrow! I must die — i ” and he died.
By: Dr. S. F. Bennett
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