Hospitals are about living and dying,
And nearly everything that you'll find in between.
They feature comedies and tragedies,
Heresy and lobotomies,
Frauds, fables, and myths.
If your heart has stopped,
Or your bowels are blocked,
Or your erection has lasted longer than four hours,
Then it's time for you to get in the car,
And seek out somebody with amazing medical powers.

It is not such a pleasant surprise,
That to every hospital where we go,
There are no shortages of odd little doctors with overwhelmingly big egos.
I know one with a Dodge Viper,
Who's an incessant whiner and griper,
He thinks that he's the cat's meow,
When he turns on the nurses and growls,
But really the last laugh is on him,
With his fancy car, bald head, and flabby double chin.

But hospitals can be places of hope,
And miracles really do take place,
And the comedy of the human experience,
Dances along without regard to age, gender, or race.

I once had a patient with a fence post,
Sticking straight through the middle of his chest,
He told us a bit about how it had happened,
And asked his Mom to fill in the rest.

There was also a man with twenty bullets,
And the holes that went along with them.
We never gave him a chance to survive his wounds,
But as he laid on the stretcher in the trauma room,
He quietly whistled a gentle tune,
"Oh My Darlin`Clementine".

I've delivered babies in the parking lot,
I've wrestled guns away from gang-bangers,
On quickly rolling cots.
I've told mothers that their children have died,
And when they asked me about their pain,
I've smiled genuinely, as I've easily lied.

There are just so many diseases,
And accidents that happen every day,
We give the best medical care that we can,
And then we get on our knees and we pray.

And so the waltz of human experience,
Goes on again and again,
And our inner city hospital emergency rooms,
Represent a composite of our lives
and our friends,
And the comedy, jest, and tragedy begin,
As each and everyday, simply start and end,
And as we come to accept the transient nature,
We are ever so quick to pretend,
That this little game of ours is make-believe,
And we delude ourselves again and again.