If we’re not asleep but rather waking
The moreso, the more we’re aware,
If we live more for giving than taking
The more there are for whom we care,
If from empathy we don’t go breaking
The ties that we’ve forged for to share,
Is our love something of our own making
Or something that’s always been there?
Has all misdiagnosis been mended
And second opinions made moot,
Has the threat of lymphoma been ended
So thoroughly it’s rendered cute,
Is the therapy normally splendid
Its side effects a jaunty hoot,
Or have some of us misapprehended
The timing to stand and salute?
Where’s the proof that the treatment’s effective
One hundred percent of the time,
Where’s the proof that some other elective
Like waiting won’t be worth a dime,
Where’s the proof that there’s just one corrective
When nonstandard methods get slime
As their payback for their fine objective
And tapping this market’s a crime?
Now the experts will go on declaring
Their training means they should decide
What to put in kids’ bodies, unerring
In dosages to be applied;
Now by questioning them we’re uncaring;
Our ailing young dears we misguide.
Is a greater right worth our forswearing
Than that which would brush us aside?
If our love won’t cure any lymphoma
It yet brings a kind of relief
That bears no trace of that peculiar aroma
Of money and status, in brief,
Which befoul those who’d wield a diploma
To pressure us during our grief —
If we’re not asleep but in a coma
We’ve no whiff of rank disbelief.