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Poem

I was suffering the backlash from a vicious winter cold,
and so all my good intentions, I’m now forced to put on hold.
I won’t be pruning any plum trees; I won’t be pulling any weeds.
I’m off to see old ‘Doctor Dayoff’ who will hand out all me needs.

So with coughing, wheezing, sneezing; feeling green around the gills
and burning with a fever, before shivering with freezing chills,
I somehow made it to the clinic and after opening up the door,
I’m about to join a multitude of patients who stole half the floor.

And when I walked up to reception I saw a new face at the desk.
A woman who was middle-aged with attitude that is grotesque.
Her demeanour was abrupt and her whining voice was sharp and loud,
and she made sure everybody heard my details in the waiting crowd.

As well as doctors in this clinic there are specialists as well,
and their patients come and go as they step through show and tell.
So as I waited patiently and for the calling of my name,
I saw old Bertie Ragg, the local wag, arrive to stake his claim.

Old Bertie walked up to reception just to let her know he’s here,
and the woman’s piercing voice abruptly reached each patients ear,
“Mr. Ragg, take a seat; you’re here about impotency – is that right?”
And all eyes were trained on Bertie and the room went deathly quiet.

I knew from past experience, Bertie would take up the verbal fight,
and he calmly started his response “No I’m sorry, that’s not right.
I’m enquiring ‘bout a sex change operation – have you any brochures?
And oh by the way, I sure don’t want - the same doctor that did yours!”

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