by David Roderick


He's our nurse; not our curse,
With him our ward can be no worse.
He has the meds; he holds the keys,
For pills, that make us feel at ease.
He is known from wide and far.
He is our nursified, idolic, pop-star.
With him, we can do some good:
Like brothers together in the hood.
Ode to him in this place:
His noble gait, and ugly face.
Out on ground leave, we can go.
What a rave; a jolly good show.
The legend permeates across the land,
Of this nurse and his band:
The motley crew that pass all tests:
The epitomised exemplars of the best.
Supernurse is on the food:
He is polite; he is not rude.
With the spoon, he serves the rice;
His presentation will be nice.
As we pass through our reception,
Nothing escapes his perception.
Even on the telephone,
He is a stalwart garden gnome.
Nothing bothers; nothing irks:
Not even blue tunic shirts.
In this grateful wider nation,
We can note his elevation,
From band 4 to 5 to 6:
Qualified to play no tricks.
We shall talk of television,
Films, and music, with precision.
At the weekend all the same,
He will watch a football game:
The local team, out in force.
Where is he? There of course.
He can count the knives and forks,
And patients who are of all sorts.
Without him we would despair,
To be bereft of his care.