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Poem

It was Raymond Walker’s fortieth on a hot and humid eve,
with high beer danger conditions, therefore I didn’t want to leave,
and as the night wore on and after we had sung the birthday song,
God only knows what time it was when I finally had the gong.

And when I say the gong, this time the grog had done a mighty job.
From what I heard, I ended up a paralytic unresponsive blob,
so I was carted off by medics and placed in intensive care,  
and when I stirred I was confused because there’s nurses everywhere.

I had tubes; a breathing mask; plus IV drips in both me arms,
and patches stuck upon me chest that were connected to alarms.
I was full of legal drugs that must have been for my sedation,
so I felt that I was in, a life threatening situation.

I had heard that patients waking up from an operation,
can utter silly rubbish statements, that would require salvation.
If one was in the state I’m in, and was offensive to a nurse,
at best she might be really terse; at worst perhaps I’ll need a hearse. 

So I hope I’ll be forgiven for my words of disrespect.
but the Matron’s looking brutal, so I’m hoping I’m not decked.
She stood over me and and I’m in shadow from her grotesque frame,
as I waited for her moral lecture that will have me feeling shame.

The Matron gave an earnest stare before this statement made to me,
“You may not feel a single thing, from the waist down I am sorry.”
Then I found myself at square one and in intensive care again,
when I replied “oh that’s okay - but can I feel your boobies then?”

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