Another murky evening and
from the cabinet, relief beckons.
I strain to read the tiny handwriting
of the doctor to decipher what he reckons
would be an adequate decree
for someone as unhappy as me.
"Ah" the doctor speaks at last,
"Thirty of those drops.
Ten of them, twelve or more
and two of these if it stops."
He says not to worry about a check-up,
I'll be sorted and happy in a bit
but I have reason to believe
as I learnt from you all,
that most likely, he's all full of shit.