was sick she was treated by dr eugene j ratner, ssn 096-12-1917, author of the lancet p106 jan 14, 1978, describing the treatment of the cause of causalgia in boston. the patient was mrs j edward spike jr whose personal physician was mark altschule of harvard. bruce stillman's crony, james d watson, thanked ratner for his work. the laboratory still cannot explain ratner's work.
your daughter appears to have been a useful sample based upon her age and cancer form
were her cancer cells susceptible to death by metformin in accordance with the publications of james d watson.
cold spring harbor laboratory is replete with narrow minded bright drug company acolytes of poor character.
before ratner died he believes to have discovered a previously unknown als patholgy.
since the departed was a cardiologist i advance the following to illustrate how montefiore et al fail to heal the sick
a patient with plaque psoriasis covering more than 90% of the body is regarded as having an increased cardiovascular morbidity.
upon the administration of bcg in accirdance with the patents and publications of denise l faustman, faustmanlab.org, uspto.gov inventor search faustman, the exterior of the body clears.
what says your daughter the cardiologist, about the patient's mirbdity?
the newsday article was a puff piece for money hungry whores.
let not your lawyerly skillls cloud and fog your mind and your memories of your dealings with bruce stillman and his laboratory
ratner and perhaps even faustman are better examples of humanity?
Lyrics
Little Jesse was a gambler, night and day
He used crooked cards and dice
Sinful guy, good hearted but had no soul
Heart was hard and cold like ice
He used crooked cards and dice
Sinful guy, good hearted but had no soul
Heart was hard and cold like ice
Jesse was a wild reckless gambler
Won a gang of change
Altho' a many gambler's heart he led in pain
Began to spend a-loose his money
Began to be blue, sad and all alone
His heart had even turned to stone
Won a gang of change
Altho' a many gambler's heart he led in pain
Began to spend a-loose his money
Began to be blue, sad and all alone
His heart had even turned to stone
What broke Jesse's heart while he was blue and all alone
Sweet Lorena packed up and gone
Police walked up and shot my friend Jesse down
Boys i got to die today
Sweet Lorena packed up and gone
Police walked up and shot my friend Jesse down
Boys i got to die today
He had a gang of crapshooters and gamblers at his bedside
Here are the words he had to say
Here are the words he had to say
Guess I ought to know
Exactly how I wants to go
(How you wanna go, Jesse?)
Exactly how I wants to go
(How you wanna go, Jesse?)
Eight crapshooters to be my pallbearers
Let 'em be veiled down in black
I want nine men going to the graveyard, bubba
And eight men comin back
Let 'em be veiled down in black
I want nine men going to the graveyard, bubba
And eight men comin back
I want a gang of gamblers gathered 'round my coffin-side
Crooked card printed on my hearse
Don't say the crapshooters'll never grieve over me
My life been a doggone curse
Crooked card printed on my hearse
Don't say the crapshooters'll never grieve over me
My life been a doggone curse
Send poker players to the graveyard
Dig my grave with the ace of spades
I want twelve polices in my funeral march
High sheriff playin' blackjack, lead the parade
Dig my grave with the ace of spades
I want twelve polices in my funeral march
High sheriff playin' blackjack, lead the parade
I want the judge and solic'ter who jailed me 14 times
Put a pair of dice in my shoes (then what?)
Let a deck of cards be my tombstone
I got the dyin' crapshooter's blues
Put a pair of dice in my shoes (then what?)
Let a deck of cards be my tombstone
I got the dyin' crapshooter's blues
Sixteen real good crapshooters
Sixteen bootleggers to sing a song
Sixteen racket men gamblin'
Couple tend bar while i'm rollin' along
Sixteen bootleggers to sing a song
Sixteen racket men gamblin'
Couple tend bar while i'm rollin' along
He wanted 22 womens outta the Hampton Hotel
26 off-a South Bell
29 women outta North Atlanta
Know
26 off-a South Bell
29 women outta North Atlanta
Know
Songwriters: Willie Mctell
The Dying Crapshooter's Blues lyrics
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