Tuned to the beeps,
knocking down the creeps,
then waking them up,
is all Anesthesia stuff.


Eyes on monitors,
hands on pulse,
be active in theatre
or later regret.


When we become active,
we asked to go slow,
when slowness drives us,
our life is in mess.


Atra and Scoline,
our new jargon friends
in ECG and flow volume curves,
our cerebrum melts.


Leaks in circuits,
bleaks in prospects,
so indifferent we have become,
to getting thrashed up.


You are looked with disdain,
every time you cross,
this is earned in quagmire,
called PG life.


Drug dosages drive us mad,
so does innumerable questions,
our brains seem numbed,
by midazolam infusion.


The innocent looking monitors,
looks monstrous,
when volley of questions strike,
and we sheepishly swagger our heads.


Such is the life,
induced to maintained,
then reversed to life,
in this organic strife.


Tubes and vaporizers,
decide our day,
turning tables and changing fluids,
are our everyday play.


Everyone wonders what an anesthetist do,
while we are in theatre,
we do all the boring stuff,
which only an anesthetist can do!!

the poetess in me roused by diffusion hypoxia of gases;P