The Choir in the Corridor

They start to gather unnecessarily, due to a broken budget,

Made by the suits who are becoming broken themselves,

For they are mortal and cannot help their vulnerabilities,

But due to no replenishment, they stew in their disease.

 

In desperate thin tones, they’ll start their ardent chanting,

To keep their precious lives, still rolling in zealous motion,

Their audience is just but one man, a certain Mr. Hunt,

Who himself is susceptible to these bio-chemical shunts.

 

Another chorus joins them, but they are standing by their beds,

Victims of slander, labelled greedy, for they are the doctors,

Groaning and defensive talk continues towards this minister,

In hope, he doesn’t continue his conduct, so stale and sinister.

 

The numbers endure their growth, chants turn into screams,

A miracle for dear NHS should be for them in reach,

Jeremy, though disliked by many, you could be a true friend,

Instead of numbers, call them family, so you can start their mend.

 

There should be no naivety, about humans and their deaths,

But for them, the gift of time should be enjoyed in many breaths,

For the exhausted doctor who practises, and the patient that coughs,

Please for them, I suggest the House, stop acting like pigs at troughs.

 

These corridors, like sardine cans, are filled up to the brim,

Containing a song so sour, and made up of all things grim,

Doctored plans leave doctors pained, patients wait patiently,

But, for now what should be given to them, is locked up in solitary.