The Tale of Doctor Merritt and the Man Who Couldn’t See

In a county called Orange, in the state called North C.,
Lived a doctor named Merritt with a patient named R.

This doc knew his eyeballs from socket to sight,
He’d studied and trained both day and night.

From Howard to Illinois, then Miami he flew,
To learn how to care for the eyeball—and you.

He practiced in D.C., he was smart, he was wise,
He looked folks in their eyes—yes, right in their eyes.

Then one day came Robert, with vision quite dim,
He’d fought off the dark, but it still crept in.

His eyes had a pressure that just wouldn’t quit,
A silent thief stealing bit after bit.

The meds that they gave him—oh, what a crew:
Diamox, Phospholine, and good ol’ Glaucon too.

They dripped and they dropped, they were poked, they were prodded—
But none of them stopped how the pressure marauded.

“Conventional drugs?” said the doc with a frown,
“They might slow the ship, but they won’t bring it down.”

So he turned to a plant with a scandalous name,
A weed, they once whispered, of pleasure and shame.

He asked Uncle Sam, “May I give it a try?”
And they said, “You may… if you follow our eye.”

A stack of permissions, a dance full of forms—
A storm made of paper, bureaucracy storms.

But they gave him some joints, all rolled nice and tight,
To see if this flower could help Robert’s sight.

Now Bob didn’t puff just for giggles and fun—
He smoked to keep seeing the moon and the sun.

And lo! The results—they were stable and sound!
His fields of vision? Still safe and still round.

His optic nerves? No more breaking or bending.
His sight? Not degrading. In fact—it was mending.

No stumbles, no wobble, no wild “reefer high,”
Just clearer, steadier vision each try.

The doc said, “Let’s mix the old with the new:
The weed with the drops—twice daily will do.”

Ten joints a day with a delicate blend,
To help keep Bob’s eyesight from meeting its end.

The doc watched and charted for month after month,
And Bob came back weekly, like clockwork—kerthunk!

No red eyes, no haze, no lazing about—
Just seeing the world without fear or a doubt.

“But surgery,” some whisper, “Isn’t that the next step?”
To which Dr. Merritt said, “Not yet—not just yet.”

“The knife may be neat, but it’s also a risk—
And Bob’s doing well, so let’s not be brisk.”

“But here’s the bad news,” the good doctor said,
“I’m moving to Carolina,” he solemnly read.

“And when I do go, the program is done—
No weed for poor Bob. No sight-saving fun.”

And so with a sigh and his bags packed tight,
He left D.C. and its medicinal fight.

But before he departed, he wrote down a plea:
“This isn’t just weed—it’s Bob’s right to see.

If I could, I’d write him prescriptions all day,
To keep that dark shadow of blindness away.”

And so ends our tale from the land of the eye,
Where a flower once scorned helped a man not go blind.

Let doctors decide and let patients find peace—
And maybe one day, all the madness will cease.