Putting Me Through The Mincer (A Meaty Poem) Poem by Francesca Johnson

I won't mince words.
I'll tell it like it is.
I'm being put through the mincer.
Are they taking the pizz?
It doesn't matter that I'm dying
at the doctor's door,
they only want my date of birth
and where I've lived before.
They need to process me, you see,
like peas or tins of Spam.
They're not interested in
the sick person that I am.
The sweat is pouring off my brow
and my legs will soon give way.
My hands are weak, I cannot speak,
my head feels full of clay.
'You cannot see a doctor, love,
well, not for a couple of days.
Fill in this form with date of birth
and if you have to leave this earth
please do so
within the next 24 hours.
Thank you.'




Hypocratic oath? ? ?