Magic

Magic

This is the face of Everyman

Dressed in casual shoes and jeans

There’s not a thing remarkable about him

But he’s more than he might seem

He wears a cheap and nasty watch

His glasses are smeared and show the dirt

His teeth are small and crooked

And he’s spilt some lunch all down his shirt

But he knows what he’s talking about

As he skims quickly through my notes

I’m know that I’m going to trust his judgement

And that he’s going to get my vote

For he’s a consultant and a surgeon

The man that will wield the knife

You say surgical procedure: I call it magic

Either way, he’s the man who’ll save my life

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019