A staff of a million skeletons will attend to you today.
Should you become unwell.
The walking dead will sort you out upon these festive days.
Hark,
Listen hard.
You can hear their bony feet clacking on the ward floors.
No ears to hold their scopes, nor neck to dangle tubes upon.
Missing eyes in hollow socket space.
Surgery out of the question.
Without eyes much too dangerous to mention.
No visual assessments.
Palpate your belly.
Icy fingers scratch.
Always have cold hands.
Write their ward reports in blood.
That which once was yours.
They keep it in a cookie jar.
Fed with anti-coagulants.
Last time you were admitted.
Stashed away for the ill to use exclusively on Christmas day.

The nurses are worn out.
Fingers worn down to the bone.
Listen once again as all those patients moan.
A cold bed bath.
The nurses hands are sorely chilled.
Had no time to eat today.
Only one or two around.
That's all the staff they found.
The angels became bones.
No time for their breaks.
While festive moments are magic.
Only get ill if you must.
Won't be very long before the staff turn into dust!

By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)