Cuts and Hunts - Distress and the NHS

The NHS is on the rocks
While bonuses still run amok
Alas, we can't abate their greed,
In fear the taxless misers leave.

Yet in their wake and half asleep
Our bright young doctors can't compete,
A talent pool we have to keep
But smited by a wretched feat.

Already slaving over hours
To face a sudden, freezing shower
Of seething, callous, establishment spit,
Rights are torn and wages slit.

While Hunt slashes the scalpel down,
Scarlet seeps into sodden gowns,
As platelets cease to stem the flow

And we watch a just, free service go.

I weep for these abominable gits
Yet as they lie in pestilent pits,
No troubled sleep while the spited fit
In fear with rapidly truncating wits.

I once was proud of a caring state,
Now in my mouth a cud I taste,
As behind closed doors the welfare wastes
To a perilous, pious, un-penitent fate.

Cameron and the necro-sow

While the tales abound of necro-sow
Chowing down on a Bullingdon chode,
The news of Cameron's bullies erodes
To dust while we're unsighted.

And Corbyn from the right is slighted
Through Murdoch's lugubrious, tainted press.
Established order is hard to undress,
The top-heavy guffaw as the voters vote for less.

Prospects

The squirrel searches the barren trees
For nuts but none will yield.
Earth is scratched for pitiful treasures
Of years gone by when springs were fair.

The countless debts and tuition fees
Accrue while wages wilt.
The country wrecked, roads only lead
To the city where the soulless breed.

No shit Senate

Climate change is real, the Senate sense,

No sense for the past thirty years or more

Yet still we talk of a crisis to come

While the world around begins to succumb.

The debate rages on as the tide encroaches,

The glaciers rumble and shake the shore,

The rivers dry and the estuaries crumble

While the senseless fat cats faff and fumble.

Why the conflict?

As the wasted in Paris waste the press,

Virginia steeps into vile recess.

The cesspit of minds these thoughts caress

Expand where once upon a time

It seemed though broken heads would fly

To far off lands from whence they came.

But back they come and fighting fierce,

Though never fair and ever near,

Each time the world descends under stress

The bastards turn on ones deemed less.

Conflict, it seems, is a crass necessity

Perpetuated by frustrated souls

In a world where many care but the cold remain

To keep the old order and minds the same.