By Brian Phillips, living with PH
I didn’t feel too well this morning,
To the Doctor decided to go.
The Receptionist said, “Not today, luv,
Our appointments book’s full, don’t you know?
We’ll just book you in, fortnight Friday,
Meanwhile if you’re feeling more ill,
Just take yourself off to the Chemist,
He’ll find you some mixture or pill.”
“But I must have an examination,
Don’t know what I’ve got, but it’s rum,
I’ve pink spots in front of my eyeballs,
There’s a gurgling roll in my tum.
My left arm won’t rise from my side like,
My tongue is all covered with hair,
In my head there’s a man with a hammer,
And I don’t think he likes it in there.”
Just then came a man in a white coat,
Saying, “Old Mrs Smith hasn’t come,
I can fit you in now, if you like, lad,
If down to my office you’ll run.”
He listed my symptoms with interest,
And then he leaned back in his chair,
A slow smile spread over his features,
And he ran both his hands through his hair.
“The pink spots,“ he said, “are just toothpaste,
On your glasses, they’re splattered about,
The rumbling tum wants some breakfast,
It needs some before you come out.
Your left arm, I see, missed your coat sleeve,
It’s constrained by your coat I can tell,
The fur on your tongue and your headache,
Means you’ve supped, not too wisely, but well.
I’ll lay odds that you spent yester evening,
At “The Lion” or “Travellers Rest,”
And you sampled their brews with much gusto,
As is shown by the stains on your chest.
I’ve a nice little fizzy concoction,
That’ll put you to rights, straight away,
AND next time we both go out drinking,
Remember! It’s your turn to pay!”
