When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before the NHS has found the cause
Of why I wake each night at ten to three
And stand before the porcelain while pause
Extends from short to painful long delay,
I ought to take much comfort from the thought
My name is next upon The List today
For scan and proctological report.
To “scan” add “probe,” the smiling Nurse has said,
Then shown me to a bed behind a screen.
Can hopes of eight hours sleep be worth the dread
Of questing rubber glove and Vaseline?
Too late to leave! I lie, exposed, and blink
While self-respect to nothingness doth shrink.