The NHS Is Full Of Layabouts by Harry Gallagher

I am not a silent poet

The NHS is full of layabouts,
lounging good for nothings,
veins coursing with drugs
paid for by you and me,
drips dangling from flesh
like platinum handcuffs.

The NHS is full of layabouts
bedded down in corridors
like the Lord God almighty.
Some talk of meeting Him.

A feckless junior doctor
sneaking in a sly snooze
in a secret shady corner.
Mumbling red eyed excuses
about a snatched ten minutes
on a twenty hour shift.

The NHS is full of layabouts,
unproductive units claiming
coronaries, car crashes,
cancers and sad lonely endings.

So here I come with my scalpel
and my smoke and my mirrors
and by the time I’ve finished
you’ll all be in stitches.

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