Medical poetry

In 2010, I needed surgery for bowel cancer. Fortunately, the surgery appears to have been successful, and with no adverse consequences apart from some occasional uncomfortable effects on my internal plumbing works, on which I choose not to elaborate. I found that writing poetry helped me to cope with the challenge of my medical treatment. Not all of it is appropriate for those of a squeamish disposition, but here are a few which avoid detailed examination of my plumbing problems.  Despite various whinges one hears about the NHS, I can only say that with a few minor exceptions, all the treatment I received at the hands of the NHS was excellent, and it was a truly humbling experience to encounter so many wonderful health workers, some of whom earn a very modest living for doing a superb job in a dedicated fashion.

  Fizzy Drinks

When a nurse brings you a fizzy drink

Be afraid, be very afraid.

Despite what you may initially think

It's sure as hell not lemonade.

It could be Kleen-Prep; God help you

Which tastes both fizzy and foul.

It makes you burp on its way down

And does nasty things to your bowel.

If it's not Kleen Prep, it could be Potassium

Which looks like Alka-Seltser.

Hold your nose and drink it slow

Or you'll bee the world's best belcher.

I must go now, and disappear

And look as if I'm busy.

'Cos here comes the nurse with a glass, I fear,

And it looks as though it's fizzy.

St. Patrick’s Day

It’s a grand day at St. Mary’s, St Patrick’s Day is here

So take us off the saline and put us on the beer.

Seventeenth of March is a day which should be lively,

So get hold of some Guinness

And let’s have it on the I/V.

The Irish patients and the nurse, Carleen the Dublin dolly,

Will have a Paddy’s Day parade.

Our float will be a trolley.

We’ll whiz around the corridors.

There’ll be no end of fun.

And then, to have some extra craic

We’re off to Cheltenham.

St Mary’s Finest

The famous Florence Nightingale was Lady with the Lamp.

She nursed the British soldiers in their foul Crimean camp.

Now one-five-five years later, and I’ve had my reversal,

But for the grief it caused my bottom I had no rehearsal.

One Friday night the pain was bad. For respite I was yearning.

A great nurse gave me Sudocrem, which stopped my bum from burning.

So thank you, Tracey Myers. You really are a star,

And you’ll  go down in history as the Lady with the Jar.

Catheter Tube     (“to the tune of “Blue Suede shoes”)

Well I’m feeling unsteady

But here’s the physio.

He says to get ready

So go, man, go.

But don’t you

Step on my catheter tube.

 Well you can do anything

But stay off my catheter tube.

Well you can march me around

With an oxygen mask

And within reason

I’ll do what you ask.

You can make me walk all the way to the loo

But stand on that tube and I’ll swing for you

And don’t you

Step on my catheter tube.

 Well you can do anything

But stay off my catheter tube.

Well you can trash my bed

Make me hike for hours

Drink my squash

And steal my flowers

You can make me walk ‘cos that’s your job

But I’m gonna squawk if you hurt my knob

So don’t you

Step on my catheter tube.

 Well you can do anything

But stay off my catheter tube.

G-I  Joes

There’s a  ward at St Mary’s, I’m pleased to report

Where the standard of care is phenomenal

For Gastro-intestinal  (called “G-I” for short)

And all other ailments abdominal.

Each G-I Patient is given a bed

Though he’s  not  fought for U.S of A.

Where he’s cared for and watered (but may not be fed)

While his State is improved by his stay.

The doctors and nurses and their back-up team

Come from several different nations.

With care and devotion they keep the place clean

And deliver superb ministrations.

So if you’ve the misfortune to be struck down low

By an ailment for which you didn’t plan. It

Will help you if you are a new G-I Joe

In the ward which is known as Charles Pannett.