Hospital For Sale

The NHS was poorly sick, With cracked old walls and clocks that ticked, The nurses ran on tea and fumes, While ghosts queued up in waiting rooms. The doctors patched with string and hope, The patients learned to cough and cope, A man said, "Sir, I've lost my leg," They handed him a feedback peg. Then private suits with shiny shoes, Arrived with charts and cheerful news, "We've found a cure, it's quite profound, We sell each bed by the pound." They priced the plasters, leased the chairs, Put contactless on thoughts and prayers, The waiting list grew long and wide, Then started queuing up outside. A cleaner mopped around despair, A vending machine dispensed healthcare, "Press one for pain, press two for doom, Press three to rent a birthing room." The minister smiled, "We've made it lean," Which meant the cupboards had been cleaned, No beds, no staff, no time, no pay, But look, a logo redesign today. The nurses laughed, then laughed some more, Then cried behind the theatre door, The surgeon used a rusty spoon, The funding's due in late June. A patient asked, "Am I alive?" The invoice said, "From nine till five," A skeleton in cubicle three, Said, "Still no one has called for me." So raise a glass of hospital tea, To care that once was meant be free, Now sold in bits, all bright and branded, Underfunded, outsourced, stranded.