There was a young Frenchman of thirty, A quiet man not very wordy, He discovered by chance On a roadway in France, That his body was not all that sturdy. Disfigured beyond recognition, His car but a shell and transmission, His arms were waylaid And his face torn away, Mutilated, at best, his condition. A surgeon both skillful and bold Saw the hopelessness start to take hold. Deciding to graft A face to the shaft Of his neck then upward unfold. Then taking two hands from the dead, Sewed them onto the stumps with a thread. Two hands and a face, The man had replaced, But infection within him soon spread. This week while the surgeon was cutting, With surgical knives from him jutting, The pulse of his heart No blood would impart, And no longer the Frenchman goes strutting. An effort beyond any reason, The offer of hope simply teasin,’ The remainder of days In a drug induced haze Resulting in cardiac treason.