Shame, gore leecher, shameful bleeder—out it’s spillin’.
This practice has been abandoned for a while.
It is insane to do blood drains. I demand: “Why
are you going at it Theodoric-style?!”

(And with a demented smile)

Veins you’re baring; this is scaring. Shame, gore leecher.
This ain’t funny, and it ain’t medical art.
I’d say that it borders on black magic—
“Patient” lies there; your knife pries there,
then spots bright dot the arms, serum bleeder,
and from the gash exudes a cache of plasmic parts

And it looks like filling from cherry tarts.

Your sole repute is, you’ve bled ’em, hemo-leaker.
You cannot put it back in once the flow starts.
On it flows, out it goes—this is tragic.
“Patient” lies there; not much dries there.
For this farce you’re paid dough by “health” seekers,
and when you’re done, sometimes excess bleeders depart.