Thursday, 9 February 2017

Falling Angels


Comrades of physicians,

More useful than a priest they stand

Bound by paperwork, short on hands,

Rarely ever short on caring,

Just drained of energy and sleep.

Male or female, angels are androgynous;

Wingless yet celestial:

A nurse is forever a nurse.

Yet beneath the prowling politician’s mask,

Hidden by their ‘caring’ camouflage

Dark hearts are lurking on the hustings

Electioneering evil, their moneyed masquerade

A catalogue of flawed belief.

Such are the methods of the City thief;

A conviction that all human souls

Are up for sale.

If every man and woman has their price,

Minister, investor, tell me this:

How do you privatise a nurse’s mind?

Where is your dividing line

Between profit and compassion?

From their wee small hours on darkened wards,

Let the busy, silent nurses speak.

Whilst corks pop from your Bollinger,

I collect the bedpans, whilst you wallow

In some shareholding haze

That gilded glade where profit blooms

Whilst I push trolley loads of pain

Into the healing, sterile rooms

Where lives will hang upon the straining thread

Of your insatiable greed.

And as you scheme and calculate

To tabulate my fiscal worth,

I still dispense thin oxygen of hope

I work where time is tight with saline drips

A catheter, syringe.

And as my long shift ends I wonder;

To my aid, what will you bring?

Survival of the richest,

not treatment of the sickest?

Will you let me do my job,

Will you grant me any hope?

And when the time arrives for you

To occupy a bed,

Will your profits  help me cope?

Don’t think your cash can purchase nursing

Forget the market

And its narcotic rush

The angels aren’t for falling,

No matter how you push.

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