They will justify nine-times-tithe price. . .
Get a pain—premium’s sky high.
Give ’em payments, the mooches get fat;
Get a fever, they will snatch your dough—
They’re rich; you’re flat [broke].

Eat meat on Friday—that’s alright,
Long as you ain’t got a medical plight.
“But get sick and forget any latitude.
F**k off, die, just don’t grieve us!!”
That’s their attitude.

Don’t get sick, that’s the trick,
Or you’re licked, Jill, Jack,
So, don’t throw out, for example, your back.
A neck crick? Finger prick? Got a trick knee?
You’re screwed!
If you can get insured,
Forget about food.

Don’t entertain having a pain,
Or from their rolls, they’ll drop your name.
Don’t get a cold, or here’s the rap:
“A preexisting condition!! So your till we’ll sap!!!”

Don’t get sick! Don’t get sick!!
Don’t get sick, Jill, Jack!!!
Roll dough over to some slatternly flack.
“Got a nick on the tip of a digit?
You’re screwed!
Get interred, then you’re “cured,”
Undeterred worms’ food!”