Emergency Number Ten
Fold up all those trolleys,
Let the crises lie;
Unwobble all those collies;
Let Charlie Fairhead die.
Feel no pulse or pity,
Let operations pause;
Down with Holby City,
Its long white corridors.
Pull the plug on pleasers,
Take it on the chinly,
All those licence fees are
Not for Dr. Finlay –
Not for you the nurses,
Or the quick emergence
Of ambulance or hearses
(Depending on the surgeons),
Not for you the bedpan,
The white coat where they’ve bled –
You’re not for the med-fan,
Or those who love the dead.
Go, make TV boring,
Unpopular as jazz.
To watch when it is pouring?
Some intellectual Daz.
Who do you think you are?
Who do you think you’re kidding?
Give back the ministerial car
And do the public’s bidding.
