The carcinoma left a bullet hole
High on my forehead. It looked like a tap
By a pro hit man. In fact the killer’s role
Was played not by a pistol-toting chap
But by a pretty female whose light touch
Sliced out the blob and pieced a flap of skin
Into the gap. It didn’t hurt that much.
When finally the pit was all filled in
A pink yarmulke of Elastoplast
Topped off the job. The whole thing happened fast.
The wound, alas, healed slowly, but the heap
Of duct tape mercifully was replaced
By one neat bandage, though I had to keep
Changing it each second day. I faced
At least three weeks of wearing this square patch
And there were interviews for my new book
Demanding to be done. A tale to match
My rather daring James Bond sort of look
Seemed called for, so I mentioned MI5,
A mild gun battle. I got out alive.
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