A light poem on the subject of a serious medical condition
I have to confess that a source of much humour
Was poor Aunt Veronica’s cerebral tumour.
This growth, now a topic of medical gravity,
Occupied half of her cranial cavity.
Odds stacked against her, she fought for her life.
She succumbed to the scalpel, she bowed to the knife.
They probed her pituitary, delving down deep
While she diced with death in anaesthetised sleep.
The bumbling old surgeon was not over-deft:
He whipped out her brain but the tumour he left
And, mistakenly thinking her ills were defeated,
He packed her off home with her treatment completed.
Years later she swore she was feeling all right
When they X-rayed her scull and the slip came to light,
But they left her intact to prevent further pain
And her tumour now functions as well as a brain.
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