No one on this wet rock is self-made
they all got fat with a safety net,
foundations laid
by mothers and fathers who gave
time, lives, thought, truths
so we can do what we do

It’s this we should continue

Let those who can
burn bright and earn,
that’s fine, they’ll cope
but your concern should be
the bedrock beneath us

Your every task should be to
feed, clothe, educate and make safe.

If you want Great,
supposed lost,
fulfil your role as public servants,
right and honourable,
that’s the only real cost

I see the ones
who don't see anyone.
Their skin is as fragile as the pages in an old book
and they look at me with eyes that have read it all,
seen it all
and are still scared.
I know their loved ones;
the worried fingers
that lace and unlace
as they stare a hole in the space between their shoes,
unused to the barriers,
fighting every instinct just to keep dear ones safe.
When I grace their bedside,
adjust the pillows behind their heads, I think;
every touch is their touch -
the ones that can't be close -
reaching through closed doors.
Every look is their look.
Every word of comfort are words those loved ones would say.
I hope they know,
and I pray they are
no longer alone.

In times like these we must beware,
for we know not when end is near,
know your purpose in this world,
for time has come to be sincere.
To all those people fighting bold,
whose days are long and nights are cold,
for you and I they risk their lives,
so now’s the time to make them smile.
Give them strength and power too,
for we know not what they go through.
Show respect, support them too:
to all those angels, we need you.

Bring to me your broken down
Your rattling and cracked
Send me all your fractured hearts
The pains; the sprains and smarts

Deliver to me your wounded
Your tortured mentally alone
Pass to me your elderly infirm
The babies born before their term

Rush to me your weak of will
Your dependant; addicted and lost
Blow to me those down on their knees
The drunk. Morose. Self-inflicted injuries

Laugh with me at human things
Your odd accidents and stories
Triage with me as I tend the wound
Make you better than the you I found

Present to me your desperate
Your shattered and your morbid
Breathe with me as surgery makes well
Exhale! On my skill your fate befell

Lay on me your one in three
Your canker’d and your wretched
Move to me those at end of time
When curtain falls on final pantomime

Please bear with me when times get hard
When I slip up and make odd mistake
Pray for me at seventy. No dotage; still I strive
So proud to play my part in keeping you alive

Raise thanks with me for visionary
My creator; father Aneurin Bevan
Have patience with me when I seem slow
Many patients to see in daily ebb and flow.

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)

God save the Queen,
and **** the NHS.
***** the poor,
revere the wealthy.
Business is good;
the population; unhealthy.
Your  life's duty to the nation;
Work, spend and copulation.

With currency the cutlery,
to carve the nation up.
We have no choice but to
sip  the poison sup.
Turn weak on weak,
Anger from frustration.
In the cold cold heat of
the cruelty of this nation.

******* the Queen,
and save the NHS.
Give the wealth,
to one and all.
Heed this call;
what we need today.
Is to take back power;
so we can give it away!

"Compassionate Conservatism"
and
"friendly fire":
Euphemistic oxymorons
capable of
destroying hospitals.