The poem
I don't think men of eighty odd Should let a surgeon operate; Better to pray for peace with God, And reconcile oneself to Fate: At four-score years we really should Be quite prepared to go for good.
That's what I told my husband but He had a hearty lust for life, And so he let a surgeon cut Into his innards with a knife. The sawbones swore: "The man's so fat His kidneys take some getting at."
And then (according to a nurse), They heard him petulantly say: "Adipose tissue is curse: It's hard to pack them tripes away." At last he did; sewed up the skin, But left, some say, a swab within.
I do not doubt it could be so, For Lester did not long survive. But for mishap, I think with woe My hubby might still be alive. And while they praise the surgeon's skill, My home I've sold--to pay his bill.