It’s  Monday morning,
The waiting room’s filled,
With a diverse collection
Of folk who feel ill.
The screaming child
That apparently last night,
was lifeless and weak,
Now squares up for a fight!
The little old lady,
In the chair by the door,
Could be sleeping or dead
I’m really not sure.
The bronchial orchestra
Tunes up once again
The tickly lady coughs
And the seal bark of men.
The percussion of sniffs
Adds to the throng
Then a triumphant atishoo
Brings an end to the song.
And the doctor appears
And calls out my name
His weary eyes searching
Through the sick and the lame.
He smiles when he sees me
And bids me “come in”,
And in the background once more
The orchestra begins.