A Nice Nurse knocked on my front door,
So I showed her up the stairs,
To my first floor flat.
I asked her to observe,
The difficulty that I have
In ascending to my abode,
For it is an overweight and arthritic old man,
Who writes this ode;
And coughs as he does so, remembering,
Forty years of heavy smoking
Plus decades more of breathing,
Polluted city air.
So I pant up the steps,
And sit, wheezing, in my chair,
As the Nice Nurse questions me.
She asks if I can wipe my own arse,
And how frequently I pee,
How I catch the bus or train,
And, how many pills I take,
And when I walk with my walking stick,
What progress do I make?
At the end of the interview, she explains
That in a month or so,
A verdict on my payment will be made,
It could be cut, it could be raised, it could even be doubled
Then she holds up a bucket and says:
“or just kick this now,
Save the government some money and trouble.”
copyright p.murry april 2018