Misdiagnosis


A few holes of golf, while she was on call,
She loudly called FORE and then hit the ball.
And that’s when she heard the poor fellow’s cries.
He was there on the ground, his hand twixt his thighs.

His legs tight together like they’d never disjoin.
She knelt by his side, massaging his groin.
Then she pried loose his hand, as he screamed in protest.
“I’m a doctor,” she said “and I know what is best.”

She massaged and she soothed until he settled down.
A crowd of onlookers had soon gathered around.
She asked the poor man, “Now isn’t that better?”
His reply turned her face as red as his sweater;

Caused the crowed to all laugh at her there by her side                                                                                                         It was one of those times when she wished she could hide.                                                                                           “Your massage was just great, you were nice to insist,                                                                                                        But that’s not where it hurts, your ball hit my WRIST!”

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