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Poem about MMC

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I found this poem posted in doctors net .I will omit the identity of the person who posted it.

MMC Poem -

My Medical Career (MMC)

““Staff,” send for a doctor; This patient’s ill.

She’s 34, 5 days post op and on the pill.”

Shrill, indignant, loud the staff nurse spake,

“What’s this got to do with me? I’m on break.”

“But she’s not well,” the student nurse insisted,

And with awkward questions ceaselessly persisted.

“She’s got a slight temp, and a painful leg,

She’s breathing fast, don’t make me beg?”

“Where’s the F1?” howled nurse frustrated

“He got fed up and emigrated,”

“The F2 is on their way…?”

“No she has three interviews today…”

Then into the fracas the gallant NP weighed;

Overweight and overpaid.

Blonde hair scraped back and face with makeup pallid,

No history needed, an exam not valid.

Legs apart there stood the bimbo,

A troubled frown and arms akimbo.

She took a breath and from her lips did peal

The 64,000 dollar (a year) question – “How does that make you feel?”

The student nurse was now quite worried

And to the desk and phone she hurried

The number dialled a poor choice.

Three rings and then a voice;


“I think she’s shocked,” piped our hero.

BP is low and “sats” read zero.

It was the hospital manager who calmly stated –

“It’s OK, the machines were never calibrated.”

Redialling now in frenzied panic,

Jaw set, expression manic.

Calling on the betrayed, the damned, the low:

She grimly bleeps an SHO.

One she’s told has been found hanged:-

The phone in its receiver clanged.

A second joined the milit’ry,

And livid stalks the JDC.

She rings an FTSTA

No hope, no job, no respect, no pay.

“I’d really love to come and meet her,

But I’ve got this sodding R*TA.”

Down the list her finger scans,

And quickly formulates some plans:

“The STs,” she beams and quickly dials

And prays that this will end her trials.

‘Alas’ - through gritted teeth the doctor grated, -

Though advertised the post was not created.

“I swear to all of you this day,

One day I’ll get the BMA”

She rings the sub-consultant post,

And in drifts this consultant’s ghost.

A swollen calf he quickly spies,

“Sorry I only do the thighs.”

He looks into each dismayed eye

The patient gives a strangled cry

This half-wit, half-doc blithely sighed,

“Yes I am that specialised.”

“I got this job through filling forms,

I know nought of metabolic norms.

Good in teams, the patient central,

It’s not my fault MTAS is mental.”

A crazy, desperate, last resort,

She can taste the RCN report,

Half-mad, half-baked, hell-bent;

She rings the 5th year med-student.

Again this poor waif is out of luck,

This med-students a total schmuck.

He has left to perform an ECD,

An Emergency Conversion to Dentistry.

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that was really good

i am sure the poet will sail through MTAS with creative writing skills like that 8-) ;) !!

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That was superb!! :lol: Cheered me up no end..i hope they all suffer the way they're making us .

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