Is this the gut that lunched a thousand chips
And Medicared the careless split of ileum?
Sweet Doctor, make me immortal with a stitch.
He liposucts my girth; see where it flies!
Come, Doctor, come, give me my appetite once more.
Here I will dwell, for heaven be in these chips,
And all is sauce for this fair gut of mine!.
I will eat Paris, and for love of thee,
Instead of Troy, shall Pocatello burn
And I will pray to ancient Galen wise,
And wear thy stitches on my bruised chest;
Yea, I will swell to crush the very heel,
And to my belov'd surgeon come again.