On St Patrick’s day my score was nine point two.
Maybe I am about to get the regular flu.
In spite of all the tablets I take.
The magic number Six I cannot make.
Every night the Insulin counts to twenty six.
Resembling a drug addict going for a fix.
I am told it goes into the cell.
What good it does I cannot really tell.
The Pancreas has gone away to sleep.
The reward of all the chocolate now I reap.
A perpetual hostage to tablets and syringe.
Doctor says that nature takes revenge.
Every morning at eight the score I keep.
And when it’s high I want to sit and weep.
Would I be better off in not knowing.
And let sugar keep on flowing.
It seems to me I am the master of my fate.
At least for diabetes at any rate.
I will still have to measure, measure,measure.
And build in exercise for my leisure.
I know a diabetic man who is eighty one.
He still treasures life and has his fun.
In spite of limitations we can go on.
Live,love life and hum our song.
Copyright © Patrick Ronan