She Swore

She swore that she would love him
for better or for worse.
From the wedding carriage
to the funeral hearse.

She swore that she would love him
for richer or poorer
and wealth is measured many ways;
money's not important for her.

She swore that she would love him
to have and to hold
but his mind is playing tricks.
He doesn't remember growing old.

She swore that she would love him
in sickness and in health
but this damned disease is stealing him
insidious in stealth.

She swore that she would love him
to love and to cherish.
To watch him wither while alive
leaves on happy years a blemish.

She swore that she would love him
until death did them part
and although she does and he still lives
it's with a broken heart.

She swore that she would love him
til his bones were naught but dust
and alone she works to comfort him
and doesn't want a fuss.

The Dinner Ladies in the Chronic Canteen

"The dinner ladies in the chronic canteen
serve up portions; big, small and green.
They dole out rations of little yellow pills
and smartie-count to pay the bills"

Privy to knowledge that would make others squirm
We know how to be patient and when to be firm.
We sweat in the Summer and freeze in the Winter
but here is darkly comic. It's Irvine Welsh, not Pinter.
Our own peculiarities seem normal by comparison
to our regulars who haunt the place with dead eyes and abandonment.
Our unbecoming uniforms are shabby at their best
(and as there's nothing nice to say, I won't describe the rest).

"The dinner ladies in the chronic canteen
serve up portions; big, small and green.
They dole out rations of little yellow pills
and smartie-count to pay the bills".

For each and every script we cross, the most we can is done.
And amidst abuse, disease and death, that "thank you" is hard won.
We work to bones day in, day out and wake at four in the morning
from drug addled dreams from incidental exposure and professional doubts a-gnawing.
We face each day with optimism and a damn-strong caffiene crutch
to kick those clouding dreams away and whimsy into touch.
When an error costs a life we can't afford to drift along.
This is an "elementary service job"?
You couldn't be more wrong.

"The dinner ladies in the chronic canteen
serve up portions; big, small and green.
They dole out rations of little yellow pills
and smartie-count to pay the bills".