Atop Parnassus
If God heals and the doctor charges the fees
then take me atop Mount Parnassus please
where muses in their limestone caves
sing and dance and harp away the graves,
invoking great Apollo's grace
since potions could not best a God's embrace
or so the ancients thought years past;
now, modern medicine has surpassed
legend, casting aside antiquity and belief,
replacing it with science in sharp relief,
until the only thing left that is Greek
is the name of the street on which we speak:
Parnassus, oh Parnassus, named by some guy
sitting on high who knows we still rely
on a bit of faith, a bit of muse
in choosing the medicines that we choose.
Forgetting history, casting away humility
is to discard sense and sensibility.
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