[Verse 1] A single trunk, one valve to serve them all, Pulmonary branches spiral before they fall, Right arch curling where the left should bend, Echo finds the shadow, CT draws the end. Newborn chest, still learning how to breathe, Two doctors lean in closer than the eye can see. [Verse 2] Twelve millimeters, conduit stitched with care, Threading a passage where the trunk once flared, Type Two whispers: branches sitting close, not far, Collett and Edwards charted where we are. Ten months later, pressure climbing steep, A balloon unfolds the narrow street. [Chorus] One trunk, one valve, four types to know, Edwards and Collett paved the road we follow, Type Two — the branches part like sisters, hand in hand, Right arch riding where the left should stand. Twelve millimeters, ten months in, the strain— Balloon and pressure widen out the lane, Sing it once, then sing it twice again, The label's just the door, the anatomy's the key. [Verse 3] Sixty gave a shrug, no pump to hold the chest, Palliate and pray was all they had to test, Eighty-five brought conduits, valves of borrowed grace, Surgeons learning slower than the spiral's pace. Now the scan resolves in seconds, sharp and flat, Progress isn't a straight line — it circles back. [Bridge] Surgeon says: the borders, the branches, and the arch, Cardiologist counts the pressures as they march, Historian reminds us what the decades cost— Do the classifications still matter, or are they lost? They matter when they guide the hand about to cut, They matter less than function, but they're never "just." Three voices at the table, one child on the chart, The taxonomy's a language, not the heart. [Verse 4] Growth-potential conduits stretching with the years, Tissue engineered from the patient's own frontiers, Expandable valves that flex but never fail, No more re-op every time the child gets tall. Twelve months, twelve years, the graft will learn to grow, Type Two truncus — now the story that we know. [Verse 5] Somewhere a resident studies the four types twice, Memorizing Collett's numbers like the roll of dice, But the mother in the waiting room don't know the name, She just wants the sternum closed, the fever tame. Between the textbook and the bedside there's a bridge— Language built for rounds, not for the ridge Of a scar that maps a life still being drawn, Truncus arteriosus, breathing on till dawn. [Chorus] One trunk, one valve, four types to know, Edwards and Collett paved the road we follow, Type Two — the branches part like sisters, hand in hand, Right arch riding where the left should stand. Twelve millimeters, ten months in, the strain— Balloon and pressure widen out the lane, Sing it once, then sing it twice again, The label's just the door, the anatomy's the key. [Outro] One trunk becomes a lifetime, chart by chart, Surgeon, scholar, cardiologist — three lenses, one small heart.
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