| Once I loved such a shattering physician
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| Quite the best looking doctor in the state
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| He looked after my physical condition
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| And his bedside manner was great!
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| When I’d gaze up and see him there above me
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| Looking less like a doctor than a Turk
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| I was tempted to whisper, «Do you love me
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| Or do you merely love your work?»
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| He said my bronchial tubes were entrancing
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| My epiglottis filled him with glee
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| He simply loved my larynx
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| And went wild about my pharynx
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| But he never said he loved me
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| He said my epidermis was darling
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| And found my blood as blue as can be
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| He went through wild ecstatics
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| About my lymphatics
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| But he never said he loved me
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| And though, no doubt, it was not very smart of me
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| I get on a-wracking of my soul
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| To figure out why he loved every part of me
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| And yet not me as a whole
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| By my esophagus he was ravished
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| Enthusiastic to a degree
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| He said 'twas just enormous
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| My appendix vermiformis
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| But he never said he loved me
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| He said my cerebellum was brilliant
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| And my cererum far from N G
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| I know he thought a lotta
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| My medulla oblogota
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| But he never said he loved me
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| He said my maxillaries were marvels
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| And found my sternum stunning to see
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| He did a double hurdle
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| When I shook my pelvic girdle
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| But he never said he loved me
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| He seemed amused
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| When he first made a test of me
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| To further his medical art;
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| Yet he refused
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| When he’s fixed up the rest of me
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| To cure that ache in my heart
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| I know he thought my pancreas perfect
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| And for my spleen was keen as can be
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| He said, of all his sweeties
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| I’d the sweetest diabetes
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| But he never said he loved me |