Monday, December 15, 2014

Way to Busy

Oh good grief! Another day of the same old sandwich.

Perhaps my perspective
Of imagined disaster,
Means I'm getting old
And no longer so much faster;

But still:

It seems like the funny stuff
Within the context of my job,
Has very little to do
With patient, Billy-Bob,
But more with situations
With my coworkers, and such,
Tired old nurses, that feel
Like a worn out clutch.

Unit Standard concepts
That don't make any frickin' sense,
We can't work as fast as they want
Even the highly trained dogs
Can't  jump that fence,
Yet, they will be the ones scrutinized
Held to the Policy intent,
And should we ever complain
They'll say we are exhibiting dissent.

I suffer intellectual overload
Some days I can barely function,
Quick; find me a Priest
Because I need Extreme Unction,
I am very nearly close
To the end of this frayed old rope,
Overwhelming nonsense
And I'm giving up hope,
In the course of this workday
Beneath this burden of need,
Oh, find me some Hemlock
To perform my final deed.


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