My doctor thinks I'm stupid.
  He says I'm just a plank,
And that where my brain should be
  God has left a blank,

With a note in God's handwriting
  That says 'Insert brain here'.
He says I feel a need to fill
  The void with foreign beer.

I can't read God's handwriting,
  And the doctor's writing seems
As if his pen's in pain.
  The letters are its screams.

He's like a sterile needle
  In the purple vein of life.
He's needed, but unpleasant.
  That's according to his wife.

She told me all about him,
  And more than once she cried.
At times she thinks she shouldn't have
  Agreed to be his bride.

He's bad at spending money.
  He doesn't get much practise.
Her thirtieth birthday present
  Was a half-price plastic cactus.

People call him Scrooge
  But it's not a compliment.
Yet still his self-impression
  Is without a scratch or dent.

He takes pride in his nick-name
  And his penny-pinching ways.
He retrieves used tea bags
  And he makes them last for days.

He'll gladly take the insults
  When he turns down charities.
Retaining all his money
  More than compensates for these.

He's little time for children,
  For pets or shop assistants.
If he didn't have to buy things
  He would gladly keep his distance.

And he believes that people
  Who like fun are reprobates.
Utility should be your guide
  When choosing cars or mates.

When you enter bars on dates
  You should first state your intention
To leave unless this candidate
  For marriage has a pension.

His wife described last Christmas
  With their ten-inch Christmas tree.
He uses faulty lights
  To make the carol singers flee.

I listened to her tale of woe.
  The facts were stark and bare,
And so were we soon after
  At the start of our affair.

Our many secret meetings
  Were concealed behind the curtain.
I don't think he suspected
  But I cannot say for certain.

He gave me a prescription
  Which I've struggled to decipher.
I wonder is his wife
  Really someone who I'd die for.

At times I can't help thinking
  That I'm reading 'Cyanide'.
To ensure a healthy lifestyle
  Should I run away and hide?

And reading God's handwriting
  Isn't easy, but I try.
My actions would displease him
  And with him I couldn't lie.

I'm looking out for anvils
  Or pianos that could fall.
I fear that open doors
  Could be painted on the wall.