Why didn't God give to me
  the knack of writing poetry?
Of all the things possessed by man,  
  I envy most the gifted hand
That guided by a rhyming mind,  
  can scribe out passion line by line.

It's not I am a man unlearned;  
  by mind and hand my living's earned
Caring for the sick and poor -  
  making house calls door to door.
But, why didn't God give to me  
  the knack of writing poetry?

He gave to me the skills to use  
  the surgeon's tools as I peruse
The "innards" of both man and boy  
  and then the knowledge to employ
The latest nostrum, balms and cream  
  and yet I'm left with this one dream:
Why didn't God give to me  
  the knack of writing poetry?

When I am gone, as those I've helped,  
  along with all the babies whelped,
There will be nothing left of me  
To see upon this earthly lea.
Would it have spoiled some eternal plan  
  had I but left one verse for man?
Oh! Why didn't God give to me  
  the knack of writing poetry?