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The Real National Lottery? ©

Danny Reynolds
Dalton in Furness, England
2005

You can’t enter at the Post Office,
You can’t enter it on-line.
The odds are stacked against you,
Check your post-code, that’s one sign.
They say location’s everything,
But is this what THEY meant?
Do you live near a hospital,
Whose budget’s wisely spent?
Are they pretty good with broken limbs,
But poor with lung infections?
Is the waiting list length dependent on,
Whose got the best connections?
Can anyone really justify,
Private wards in a Building that’s NHS built?
The decline of our Medical Empire, worth saving,
Should fill those who've wrecked it with shame and with guilt.
“If only we had more funds to spend!”
Fills no one with re-assurance.
While they happily endorse, and so reinforce,
The persual of Private Insurance.
Let me just put one option into the fire,
I consider this one of my best.
Cap the Lotto prize at Two million pounds,
And all profits to the NHS.
I’m sure that that nice man from Virgin,
Would offer to run it for free.
And do away with the red tape that must cost us dear,
The administration costs alone must be millions per year.
I’d spend double each week,
Than the amount I do now,
Knowing it wouldn’t be wasted on some Sacred Cow.
Never mind a new “Wembley”,
Or your “Artistic” piles of brick.
Invest it all in our children’s health,
Our poor, the old, the sick.
Look deep down, for your conscience,
Assuming you still have any.
Your people’s wish is, "Good health care for all,
Even those without a penny!"


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