Poor Old Fred

Lying waiting in my hospital bed
I glance across at poor old Fred.
His hands are clasped around his head
I start to feel a sense of dread.

Perhaps he’s going for his OP.
And does not want to talk a lot.
That’s not like Fred, who’s always bright
And keeps on coughing all the night.

I shout across “What’s up old mate”?
He speaks no words, I sit and wait.
Then at last he looks at me
I see the clock says half past three.

All day long he’s had no fun
They sold his copy of the sun!

Brenda S. Warhurst

Back to Poems - Page 3

© 2006 Brenda S. Warhurst