Cuts and Hunts - Distress and the NHS

The NHS is on the rocks
While bonuses still run amok
Alas, we can't abate their greed,
In fear the taxless misers leave.

Yet in their wake and half asleep
Our bright young doctors can't compete,
A talent pool we have to keep
But smited by a wretched feat.

Already slaving over hours
To face a sudden, freezing shower
Of seething, callous, establishment spit,
Rights are torn and wages slit.

While Hunt slashes the scalpel down,
Scarlet seeps into sodden gowns,
As platelets cease to stem the flow

And we watch a just, free service go.

I weep for these abominable gits
Yet as they lie in pestilent pits,
No troubled sleep while the spited fit
In fear with rapidly truncating wits.

I once was proud of a caring state,
Now in my mouth a cud I taste,
As behind closed doors the welfare wastes
To a perilous, pious, un-penitent fate.