The Good Doctor Don’t Prescribe

Step right up and show your sins, He’s got a cure for every ache within. Snakebite, heartbreak, soul gone dry— He’ll fix you up, just don’t ask why. They call him the Doctor, but no degree, Drives a hearse, parks it under the sycamore tree. Whispers in Latin, spits kerosene, Wears a preacher’s coat and hospital green. He lays on hands with a blackjack fist, Says, “You ain’t sick, you just don’t exist.” Pulls a rabbit from a Bible’s spine, Blesses your bones for $29.99. He don’t write no script! He don’t stitch no lips! He ain’t in no book! The Good Doctor don’t prescribe. He cured a man of guilt so deep, By burying it where the cops don’t creep. Said, “You want peace? Gotta lose your pride.” Then stole his shoes and his mother’s ride. He don’t write no script! He don’t stitch no lips! He ain’t in no book! The Good Doctor don’t prescribe. I seen him walk through fire with a glass of gin, Preach to a jukebox, baptize sin. He said, “Faith is a hammer with blood on the grip— Use it wise, or you might just slip!” No medicine, no bandage, no shame to hide— The Good Doctor don’t prescribe. He’ll burn your fear and tax your pride— The Good Doctor don’t prescribe.