Surgery, hospital scent, blinding lights
Shut your eyes, real real tight
Cold cold metal against warm throbbing life
Bite your lips hard, it’s a scalpel not a knife
Dotted lines run the length of you
They shift, as they cut, what a hard thing to do
Years later, still on the table, you are reduced.
Still the lines shift, oblivious to you.
Why get on the table
Why lay stark naked
Why let the dotted lines desecrate what’s sacred
They’ll shift, you’ll lay wide awake
Dreading the scalpel each time; but perfection is at stake
So, you shut your eyes real real tight
Bite your lips hard
And let the scalpel in plain sight
Cut you, as the lines shift, it’s a perfect postcard.