By John Reed

Sunlight floods the shiny many-windowed place,

Coldly glinting on flawless steel under glass,

And blaring imperially on the spattered gules

Where kneeling men grunt as they swab the floor.

Startled eyes of nurses swish by noiselessly,

Orderlies with cropped heads swagger like murderers;

And three surgeons, robed and masked mysteriously,

Lounge gossiping of guts, and wish it were lunch-time.

Beyond the porcelain door, screaming mounts crescendo

Case 4001 coming out of the ether,

Born again half a man, to spend his life in bed.

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