There are inmates in outpatients and patients in side wards with ingrowing toenails, Doctors who mumble old people who stumble apple crumble at lunchtime a woodbine for the smoking room which doubles as a lead lined tomb for when the X-ray's run wild.
He has no compunction in diagnosing dysfunction I wonder who died and made this man a God.
When they do an autopsy and cut bits off of me I think that It'll shock them when they see Blackpool Rock printed right through me.
I return to the inmates who've been discharged from a cannon, I feel like a man on a mission which is wholly unlikely.
The Doctor's tread lightly now inject me twice nightly now how I wish I was back in the outpatients but I have patience, I'll wait, an unstable inmate tranquilised and stabilised.