When the choleric man was brought to hospital,
His haemoglobin was somewhat under five;
The doctor on attendance wrung his hands,
“the man,” he said, “should not be alive.
Nothing known to medical science explains
The sustaining thrust of this man’s veins.”
At which a bearded man in robes
Chuckled at the doctor’s puzzlement:
“It is clear your books taught you little
Of that which bears on human intent.”
“There is clearly something up your sleeve,”
Said the doc, “which I wish you would unlock
Before I treat this inexplicable brave.”
“Know then that this man’s constitution
Does not draw from anything he ate;
That which feeds his cussed will to live
Is not biology but the power of hate.
There are many still who are not like him —
All of whom he desires to eliminate.”
For the first time the doctor understood
Why his own ailments never seemed to heal:
Because for years he gave life to those
Whom purposeful vigilantes wished to kill.
For a bare moment the doc was filled with hate
At the sight of the sick man on the bed;
But his rage was not a natural thing,
So he gave the hate-filled man some blood instead.
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