Wednesday, September 26, 2007


My doc's not a schlock, but he's a crook. He cooks his books and the schnooks are unaware of how he adds and pads his bills to rake in more revenue than he's due,

Why does he lie? Because the bucks are there and Medicare doesn't shive a git where they're coming from or who they're going to. The clerks shirk responsibility, aware of the futility and inability to fix a system broke, a billion dollar joke,

Old folks get ill and know it will kill them if they smoke, but they puff away anyway, When they cough and wheeze they say to doc, "Help me, please." The lawyer butts in with a grin and says, "This is where I come in. I can't keep you alive, but I'll help you die with lots of dough."

Without shame they file a lame claim. Both sides know it's just a game. The patient's not satisfied what Medicare decides to decide. The shyster-mister files a suit. His client gets the loot. The lawyer does just what he said. The loser pays. The winner's dead.


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