A mode of transport are the feet,
Not felt to be fit for the elite,
A golden carriage or a pure white horse,
For them, and dressed up to the nines of course,
For them, the best food and drink,
Not for them a wash in the kitchen sink.
All eaten with a silver spoon,
Were it their wish, possibly the moon.
The slightest fever or feeling sick,
Will bring the best doctor pretty damn quick.
Not for them an NHS bed,
Where chances are, they might end up dead.
Nora virus, MSRA, e coli and many more,
If you’re really unlucky a grade three sore.
If your ill on those wards you don’t get much rest,
Although some of the nurses do their very best.
With rules and regulations their hands are tied,
By policies and initiatives, they must abide.
It really doesn’t pay to be unhealthy,
Not unless you’re immensely wealthy.
Leaves me wondering if when I get ill,
who will be there to foot my bill?