The Illness

Living free, without a care,
until that doctor told me “to pull up a chair”,
and whispered in his dulcet tones,
that the illness had spread and I could not go home.
And so I lay in bed all day, stare at the ceiling,
can’t see my feet, lack any feeling,
and there is no window view, not even a door,
I’ve been told you only get them on the private floor.
There’s a tube stuck in to help me piss,
and various tubes stuck in my wrist,
the enemas will help me poo, oh what I’d give to sit on the loo,
and read a mag or a good book,
since the illness came and my life it took.

I lay here now, listening to my ward mates’ moan,
the doctors come and remind me I can’t go home,
so I dream of walking through the garden gate,
to see the kids, my wife, my soul mate,
but the windows have all gone cloudy,
there are people there, but it seems too crowded,
and who’s that playing with my kids, my wife’s new hubby, namely Sid.
When the illness struck and took me down,
dear wifey there did not want me around,
And now she sits upon her new throne and I’m left here to die alone.
For my sins I now repent, my criminal convictions all but spent,
So, please, give me morphine, let’s end this misery,
pack me off to God, special delivery.