Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the pharmacy,
Not a patient was stirring, not even a proxy.
Prescriptions were hung by the window with care,
In the hopes that tomorrow will bring no despair.
While the patients were nestled all snug in the beds,
The goods one that is, likely not the hotheads.
And the PBM in their castle, and we in the moat,
The pharmacist is left, unable to emote.
When out of the gate, there arose such a clatter,
"Fuck," goes the pharmacist, "Now what's the matter?"
Away to the window he peers, eyes scanning with a flash,
And out jumps a patient, smiling, yet brash.
"I need some Norco," she states, wearing booze and glitter,
"Goddamnit," mutters the pharmacist, cold and bitter.
"We're closed, nearly Christmas and now you appear,"
"Drunk, disorderly and covered in beer?"
"But my night, kind sir, it all happened so quick!"
"And my Oxy was stolen, just ask my clinic!"
He starts the computer and curses the name,
Looks and wonders and says with an exclaim.
"Miss this was filled a mere four days ago,"
As her eyes quickly dart back to and fro.
"I told you once, kind sir, it fell in the trash,"
And now the lies are dealt, all coming with a crash.
"Stolen or the trash, where has it gone?"
Knowing the answer was to long foregone.
"I just need it," she says, her voice a quiver,
A junkie she be, veins a pulsing drug river.
"It is to soon to fill, you'll have to come back,"
And it is then it arose with so much of a crack.
"Fuck you, kind sir, who do you think you are?"
"Do I look like a hussy from the local bar?"
"I know my laws, have money and know my rights,"
"And I know my doctor who will put up a fight."
"Give me my Norco asshole, or for I won't hesitate"
"To call the state board, take your license and castrate."
She paces and races and screeches aloud,
"Give me my drugs, right fucking now!"
The pharmacist steps to the window, mouth slightly agape
Waiting for his words to slowly escape.
He spoke not a word, but looked straight in her face,
How much more can we live in disgrace?
"Christmas it may be, the season of giving,"
"But to be a junkie is really not worth living."
"Bitch if you want, go throw and yell,"
"But don't you dare give me such hell."
"I am a professional, trained in health,"
"Not here to be your pimp despite your wealth."
He sprang to the gate, to her face gleaned anger,
"I'm sorry for your problems, but I care no longer."
As the gate slams down, the junkie shouts loud,
"Happy Christmas to all, and enjoy being plowed."
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