THE DOCTOR, THE PRIEST, AND THE LAWYER
 

A doctor, priest, and lawyer sat inside a small café.
With a stethoscope, a rosary, and an attaché.
The priest was of a quiet sort, the lawyer said too much.
The doctor said the right amount but who knew about what?
 
The lawyer sipped his mocha well, the doctor liked it black.
The priest was thankful for warm milk with bit of honey smack.
With Wall Street Journal in his face, the lawyer sat awhile,
The doctor paged through his work and the priest sat with the bible.
 
The lawyer raised his clever brow, looking strangely at the day,
The priest waited, the doctor paused both wondering what he’s say.
With finger resting on his chin, his eyes up in the air.
The lawyer spoke as lawyers do with perfumed words to spare.
 
“I’m contemplating our objectives in the great design.
An introspective examination of our most perplexing time.
Wondering inquisitively about our occupational worth,
What exactly do we do for our fellow men on earth?”
 
Smiling with the quiet cool calm integrity,
The doctor’s voice rang clear and proud with kind authority,
And as he talked he moved around, gesturing toward the air,
The doctor spoke as doctors do with complex terms to spare.
 
“The hypothesis you seek to prove involves the variable of man.
The complexities of this research are immense you understand.
But I must conjecture that we’ll find in this the doctor’s best.
Doctors help through al the aches and pains ‘til final rest.”
 
Humble pie upon his lap the priest held back a smile,
Looking round the room, at the ceiling and the tile.
Then finally inspired by some cosmic inspiration,
The father spoke with words of grace and some consternation.
 
“My son I fear you fail to see the scheme of our God’s plan.
Each of us must do his work in our craft, you understand.
But certainly the lot of priests must hold a special place,
As the ensigns of His word and ministers of faith.”
 
The lawyer kindly waited for the priest to have his say,
But he tapped his foot and rolled his eyes in quite a sharp dismay
Finally the seconds passed and the air began to sit,
And on the silence pounced the tiger with his rapier wit.
 
“Dearest colleague I beseech and humbly do object,
I beg your pardon and must premise that I mean no disrespect.
But clearly in the rights and wrongs and judicious care of man,
My profession pours the foundation upon which society stands.”
 
And just as tempers came to flare and pots began to boil,
And fingers rose to point and voices told of foibles,
A man who sat in nearby seat with dirty shirt and pants,
Strolled over to the “professionals” in the midst of their fierce rant.
 
He rubbed his beard with gentle strokes and shyly gave a smile.
His eyes were soft, his face was plain, he held a simple style.
His voice was quiet, unassuming, guilt-free in the air.
And slowly spoke the words of truth without the weight of care.
 
“I do not mean to ‘fringe upon your happy little chat,
I’m a simple grave digger and my mind’s a little flat.
Though I’m just a basic escort to the last and final rest,
In my topsy-turvy head methinks that I serve man the best.
 
“My clients do not fear their death, they do not fear their life.
They do not need my help to sleep or help to leave their wife.
They do not wonder ‘bout the world that lies beyond the grave.
They do not seek to dodge or sneak the reaper from his day.
 
“We all will sleep in deepest deep in a clay cold bed
And all this comes through sun and sun no matter what gets said.
Though each of you may help men through the day to day clamity,
But I, oh I, am their final guide to where they spend eternity.”
 
And all who heard, those gravest words nodded to their honesty.
And each of those professions learned a lesson in humility.
 
John Grace MS IV