He escaped from Lab 13B,
came out humming in F-sharp key.
Tiny lab coat, eyes too wide,
with a scalpel tucked by his monkey side.
He learned to slice from magazines,
and stitched a nurse into her dreams.
Now he roams with a twitch and grin,
climbing vents with tools and sin.
The monkey with the scalpel’s loose again,
wrote “Oops” in blood on Dr. Ken.
He carved a heart in the file room wall,
and giggled when the spine did fall.
He performs lobotomies by feel,
on anyone who dares to squeal.
Taught himself to hum and snip,
while the janitor lost his grip.
They tried a trap with meds and cheese,
he just laughed and cut their knees.
Now he’s chief of “surgery art,”
and he signs his name on every heart.
He draws diagrams in ketchup red,
then sings them while he breaks your head.
If you smell bananas and formaldehyde,
lock your door, or kiss your mind goodbye.
Now he’s got a crew of trained raccoons,
wearing gloves and whistling tunes.
The whole west wing’s his little playground–
the scalpel monkey’s found his ground.