She’s a spritely old gal our NHS, she may be using a walking frame now and drowning in her own emphysemic mucus, but like your dear old nan, she’ll glass anyone who chats shit about you.
If the NHS were truly a poorly old lady needing medical attention the Tories would be her Doctor, Harold Shipman, flicking a syringe and asking her to sign on the dotted line.
They just can’t wait to see her gasping her last wheezy breaths, clutching her throat and pleading to a smiling, indifferent Almighty, as the final lungful of air is slowly exhaled, evaporating the remnants of true British spirit as it leaves.
They’ll fucking dance and cheer and quaff Snort and jeer and laugh
Then clink and grin and drink
As they sell her corpse for cash
This is OUR NHS that fixed your nan’s hip
Bandaged your 10 year old finger after a trip
OUR NHS always waiting wide awake
To unfuck you and unfuck your likely fate
OUR NHS that delivered you to your mum
So don’t delivery it back to gleeful Tory scum.
Don’t worry, the poems is over and done, but this government’s vendetta is far from it.
They won’t rest until a doctor is checking your fucking wallet before your pulse.
If we want to keep one scrap of national identity, one shred of pride, and one thing we can be proud of leaving our kids then we need to fight for it.
Happy Birthday NHS. Here’s to another 70 years.
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