He wears a stethoscope around his neck,
To keep your heartbeat and your pulse in check.
He looks at your tongue and he looks at your eye,
With a serious face and a heavy-ish sigh.
"You're fine," he says, "just a little bit stressed,"
As he writes a prescription with lightning-fast zest.
But when you look down at the paper he gave,
It looks like a doodle from an ancient cave!
Is it a 'B' or a 'Z' or a squiggle of ink?
It's a secret code that makes the brain shrink.
Only the pharmacist, a wizard indeed,
Can decipher the scribbles that no one can read.
"Eat more greens and avoid all the fried,"
(While he hides his own burger and fries inside).
"Exercise daily and sleep for eight hours,"
While he lives on coffee and caffeine powers.
He taps on your knee with a hammer of toy,
To see if your reflexes jump up with joy.
Then he hand you a bill that's a mountain of height,
And tells you to "call if you're feeling not right."