Last night when all of you had left, and stillness sat the room, I went with friends both old and new to dine and ride the broom. From Palmer House we took a cab to eat and talk of skin, Of ships and shoes and ceiling wax, and cortisone and sin. When politics and Russia's tricks and sex became a drone, They turned to talk of cases tough they each had had at home. I'd talked all day and had my say so time had come to hear, The problems of the other men and cases they hold dear. At last the check was brought to us and each would pay his own, Not one of us could make the dough to pay the whole alone. In taxicab we reminisced of private practice true, Before the time when patients dealt with government and you. The Forand Bill and Bunker Hill