Wednesday, 11 September 2019

Q


Q

Outside the surgery
Of the last GP in town
People with sleeping bags
Were sitting on the ground
Eating bacon sandwiches
Drinking mugs of tea
One grabbed me by the entrance
And screamed impatiently 

Get to the back of the queue mate
We’ve been here all night
Get to the back of the Queue you mug
Unless you want a fight
Who the Hell do you think you are
Are you taking the piss
Get to the back of the queue you
I’m having none of this

His ranting and his raving
Was more than I could bear
And he was supported
By a dozen others there
So I turned and walked away
There was nothing I could do
But wait and stand in line
At the back end of the queue

Daylight turned to dusk
Dusk turned into night
The queue stretched ever onwards
Without an end in sight
I sat down on the pavement
Collapsing in a heap
And an old lady said to me
As I fell asleep

Get to the back of the queue come on
You’re sitting in my spot
Get to the back of the queue young man
I’m desperate and you’re not
I need a new prescription
I’m older than you by far
Get to the back of the queue you
Who do you think you are

I walked all through the night
And all the next morning too
And in the afternoon
There was still no end in view
I hopped onto a bus
For a twenty minute ride
Got off at the station
And joined the queue outside

I bought a railway ticket
And from London caught a train
All the way down to Land’s End
And then back up again
To John O’Groats in Scotland
But the queue still never ended
Through villages, towns and cities
It’s lengthening extended

I caught a train back to Essex
Where I jostled past
Angry people in the garden
Camping on the grass
And as I turned the key
In the lock of my front door
I was deafened by the sound
Of an ear-drum splitting roar

Get to the back of the queue pal
Stop trying to push in front
Get to the back of the queue son
You selfish Jeremy Hunt
I’m sick of people pushing in
It ought to be a crime
Get to the back of queue you
I’ve told you one last time

After I explained to him
That this is where I live
And I‘d seriously run out
Of flying fucks to give
I made a reluctant phone call
And in desperation
Took out a second mortgage
For a private consultation

And looking out the window
At the people still outside
Thinking about what cuts
To public services implied
I started feeling guilty
For taking the private route
And robbing the NHS
Of a valuable recruit

I picked up the phone again
With guilt still in my head
Cancelled the consultation
Got undressed went to bed
And fell asleep and dreamed of
Wandering up and down
A never ending queue to see
The last GP in town

And if there’s a conclusion
I don’t know what it is
But leaving open-ended
Would be very much remiss
So by way of a denouement
Here’s my advice to you
If you need to see the last GP
Join the fucking queue!

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