‘Our’ National Health Service is a national disgrace.
Our overpaid, lazy, part-time doctors won’t see us face to face,
They prefer to fob you off with a random telephone call
Which takes place at a time of their choosing if it takes place at all.
In the queue at the supermarket when you’ve gone down the shops,
With a basket filled with baked beans, biscuits and lamb chops,
Your doctor will call you and make you explain
In front of an interested crowd of people where exactly you feel the pain,
Why you have these embarrassing lumps
And what is leaving you so down in the dumps.
When they have finished they’ll no doubt fob you off
With a pill and some tests and something for that cough,
Then they’ll get into their personal-registered four-by-four
While the BMA campaigns for more money, more, more more.