Banged up in bed, with a very sore head,
And a diet of daytime TV,
Selina and Fred
And a boy band called Red,
And a feature on Kalamazoo,
You’re in a morass, because the shows are quite crass,
And you sink into a slough of despond ,
Cookery shows give the only odd glows,
And the antiques, of which you are fond,
Back and forth to resusc with a minimum fuss,
Go the trolleys and the beds on the ward.
Machines that go plink, pills that fizz, blue and pink,
Or we just fall on our sword.
Beds are thin and unkind, pillows so hard to find,
So your head rests on a blanket or sheet,
You have tubes up your nose, and some stuff on your toes,
And god alone knows what they’ve done with your feet.
Your body’s on fire, you’re about to expire,
From the stifling heat round your bed,
So the air-con is on, more Banff than Saigon,
To turn you from scarlet to red.
You’ve a sore, itchy rash, like a bad pebble-dash,
And your blood feels like it may be on fire,
Plug you into a socket, you’d go off like a rocket,
“Light blue touch paper and retire”!