To Doctor Thomas E. Jones

You asked me to write you a poem 
So write it I gladly shall do 
But it isn’t a poem that I owe you 
It’s my life that’s indebted to you 

You have the rare power to prolong life 
And you’ve added my best years to mine 
I wish I could help you out likewise 
But that power seems, to me, all Divine 
So I pray that the good Lord will spare you 
And though your life is such a strain 
I know you get much consolation 
In having a genius-type brain 
That is capable of solving 
All of the problems of health 
You do it because you like people 
You have little interest in wealth 
And isn’t it fine when a person like you 
Whose life is all trouble and care 
Can see, through the clouds, that the  
     sunshine 
Is all that’s worth living for here 
And can see that a life, such as you live, 
Has every minute well-spent 
No man can ever surpass you (in surgery) 
And few see how high up you went 

You need not peer into your future 
You have many bright days ahead 
For what you have done you’ll continue 
And keep thousands living, not dead
“He saves others, but himself 
He cannot save,” they say 
We can’t have all, but you get joy 
In living day by day 
And when you told me that your work 
Is really fun to you 
I thought it was the blackest lie 
Yet much of that is true 
You need no one to wish you luck 
But I do wish you well 
Yet hate to take one minute of 
Your precious time, to tell 
You anything that my brain thinks 
You’re far beyond my scope 
And, Doctor Jones, there’s not an ounce 
Of flattery, or dope, 
In what you read here, fare-thee-well 
You’re fine, and excellent, and swell!