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From the cancer patient to the surgeon
By Rachel Brown
There was a young lady who said
As she lay—quite exposed—in a bed
“When poking around
I think that I've found
A lump that has filled me with dread”
So they kneaded and massaged and squeezed
And sampled a smidgeon to freeze
And he told her quite straight
That her cancer was late
But he'd cut it all out—if she pleased.
Then she said to the surgical team
“I think that your plans are extreme
Though you may be the best
You are only the guest
Of boobs owned and grown by a queen.”
But when he had done what they do
She found that her outlook was new
When her breast disappeared
Her foot reappeared
She'd a vertical view of her shoe
And she thought—now he'd done with his knife—
She was going to get on with her life
She said to herself,
“I am not on the shelf
And my girls have always looked nice”
Then said the young lady in pink,
“The results of mastectomy stink
Though my tits are pits
I just love them to bits
Can you give them a tweak, do you think?”
For Alison and Martha, and all those women who face cancer with courage and style.
Competing interests None.
Provenance and peer review Not commissioned; not externally peer reviewed.
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