You're honoured to see Doctor Pringle,
Appointments with him are quite rare,
Perceive in advance when you're poorly,
And go the odd day when he's there.

Professorship, honours don't change him,
You still have to bow when you meet,
Two nurses each side as handmaidens,
While the other's kow-tow at his feet.

Consultations are made in great splendour,
As he sits on a large golden throne,
When leaving you must walk out backwards,
Are you sure that his ego's not grown.

To his name he has so many letters,
They won't fit the plaque that's outside,
The budget's been spent on a new one,
It's had to be 3 metres wide.

He'll skip the knighthood altogether,
An Earl or a Dukedom is next,
He tried on the robes just last Friday,
The other poor Doctors are vexed.

The Windsor's are looking quite shaky,
I hear that Prince Charles is afraid,
The Medical Centres been busy,
With "Mike for King" signs that they've made.

The Phantom Scribbler. 2001

Never let your Doctor, give you health advice,
He'll stop you doing all those things, which to us seem so nice.

Your alcoholic intake, he'll cut by up to half,
But later in the pub that night, he'll drink 5 pints of draught.

He'll lecture you on heart disease, and make you sick with worry,
Then on his way from surgery, takes home a Chinese Curry.

He'll tell you to stop smoking, mend the error of your ways,
Then next time that you see him will be through a smoke filled haze.

He'll put you on a diet, all bland foods that have no taste,
With hands discreetly covering, his large expanding waist.

You'll have to take more exercise; he'll make you walk your quota,
And you know who'll be watching, from his warm and comfy motor.

But Doctor's order's don't apply to you and Doctor both,
I think he accidentally took the "Hypocratic Oath".

(Who do you think this is)?

The Phantom Scribbler strikes Again. 1999

We have a Community Staff Nurse,
Who jogs round the district you know?
Wearing tight skimpy shorts and white trainers,
Plus fluffy warm ear muffs for show.

On her back she will carry a satchel,
Full of enemas, dressings and lint,
Setting off from the Medical Centre,
Every day at a very fast sprint.

She Jog's round the lanes and the byways,
Nursing all those sick Patients in bed,
Overtaking fast cars and huge lorries,
With a flashing green light on her head.

She's equipped for emergency cases,
And prepared for that crisis unseen,
She'll give mouth to mouth resuscitation,
If you look like Brad Pit or Sean Bean.

Just watch her speed by like greased lightening,
Hear the 'Sonic Boom' fade to a sigh,
You will not be averse, to see Julie the Nurse,
With her dainty white legs jogging by.

Written by The Phantom Scribbler before Julie left to work at Beaumond House Hospice.

As I nonchalantly walked into the surgery one day,
Three practice Nurses jumped on me and whisked me clean away,
They took me to their treatment room and laid me on a bed,
Then fiddled with my clothing something anyone would dread.

Now Ann had got my sleeves up and a needle in each arm,
She did it rather slyly using all her female charm,
A band on arm, which Anthea pumped tight as tight could be,
While Wendy stood there dipping bits of paper in my wee.

"You're much to over weight", they cried, "this really is a sin",
"You must go on a diet now to keep you looking slim",
"Blood pressure and cholesterol readings go right off the scale",
"You really look anaemic and your colour is quiet pale".

I jumped up from the bed and cried, "what ever is your game?"
"You've mixed me up with some one else who has a similar name",
"I'm not one of your patients you can prod and poke about",
"I'm here to read the meter so just stop and let me out".

The Phantom Scribbler strikes again. 2001