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!