Locum Doc

Locum doc
won’t prescribe me what I want.
Euthanasia and/or a personality transplant.
A stiff drink and a fat joint.
My baby back from the dead
in our favourite restaurant.
Locum doc, gimme what you got,
whatever the latest cutting-edge medical science
can do for a self-absorbed cunt.
Because I’m stumped, I must admit:
I recently quit my millionth spliff,
yet upon a paranoid moon still I live
with inner monologue so bitter,
my brain’s been hacked by Inner Twitler.
And when the liquor turns that devil off,
next door’s parrot turns prophet of God.
Apparrotly, Jesus thinks I’m a knob.
So, locum doc, it’s a bit ad hoc,
but will you be my focal point?
Don’t be a total cock, locum doc;
gimme me some vallies and I’ll be off.
Locum doc, let’s be friends
- what do ya mean you won't gimme the tens?