Dr Harold Shipman, famous mass murderer(Shurly some mistake --Ed.)
‘Hello, this is Shipman, your mam’s G.P.;
I dropped in on her, had a cup of tea.’
‘Hello, Dr Shipman, how terribly kind!
Taking such care of her!’ ‘Oh, I don’t mind,
I always think of my dear old mum,
Always so relieved when the doctor had come.
I dropped by to see her daffodils
And check how she’s coped with the winter chills.’
‘How does she seem to you?’ ‘She looks great,
You’d never believe she was seventy eight.’
‘You wouldn’t! She’s started a course in Greek!’
‘I doubt she’ll be learning much this week;
And the Saga trip –she’d better forget it.’
‘Oh dear!… Well, I warned mum she might regret it,
With her knees so bad… You think she shouldn’t go?’
‘It’s not what I think, it’s what I know.’
‘But you just told me—‘ Oh, she’s looking fine,
But I doubt if she’ll make it to seventy nine.
My mum had no luxury coach to Rome,
Just waited for me, her schoolboy son,
Her face at the window, in pain and alone.’
‘Please, tell me what’s wrong!’ ‘You haven’t a clue!
You thought she was fit. If only you knew!
She’s had a heart condition,
Pulmonary inhibition,
Terrible angina,
A growth in her vagina
Has spread into her womb,
There’s that sickly sweet aroma
I know so well; your mum
Just slipped into a coma,
I think you ought to come.’
‘Oh God, Dr Shipman, is she going to die?’
‘No no… And it’s too late to cry.’
‘I’m sorry… you’ve sent for an ambulance?’
‘What’s the point of it? You can tell at a glance
As she sits here sweetly in her chair
With her pale-blue dress and her silvery hair,
The nice ruby broach she’s promised to me,
Her hands in her lap as calm as can be,
She’s not going to die –she’s not going to do
Anything any more… If I were you,
I’d have her cremated.’ ‘You mean, she’s DEAD?’
‘That’s a word I wish you hadn’t said.’
----------
Britain’s most prolific serial killer, with around 186 victims, Dr. Harold Shipman had a delphic way of breaking bad news.
I dropped in on her, had a cup of tea.’
‘Hello, Dr Shipman, how terribly kind!
Taking such care of her!’ ‘Oh, I don’t mind,
I always think of my dear old mum,
Always so relieved when the doctor had come.
I dropped by to see her daffodils
And check how she’s coped with the winter chills.’
‘How does she seem to you?’ ‘She looks great,
You’d never believe she was seventy eight.’
‘You wouldn’t! She’s started a course in Greek!’
‘I doubt she’ll be learning much this week;
And the Saga trip –she’d better forget it.’
‘Oh dear!… Well, I warned mum she might regret it,
With her knees so bad… You think she shouldn’t go?’
‘It’s not what I think, it’s what I know.’
‘But you just told me—‘ Oh, she’s looking fine,
But I doubt if she’ll make it to seventy nine.
My mum had no luxury coach to Rome,
Just waited for me, her schoolboy son,
Her face at the window, in pain and alone.’
‘Please, tell me what’s wrong!’ ‘You haven’t a clue!
You thought she was fit. If only you knew!
She’s had a heart condition,
Pulmonary inhibition,
Terrible angina,
A growth in her vagina
Has spread into her womb,
There’s that sickly sweet aroma
I know so well; your mum
Just slipped into a coma,
I think you ought to come.’
‘Oh God, Dr Shipman, is she going to die?’
‘No no… And it’s too late to cry.’
‘I’m sorry… you’ve sent for an ambulance?’
‘What’s the point of it? You can tell at a glance
As she sits here sweetly in her chair
With her pale-blue dress and her silvery hair,
The nice ruby broach she’s promised to me,
Her hands in her lap as calm as can be,
She’s not going to die –she’s not going to do
Anything any more… If I were you,
I’d have her cremated.’ ‘You mean, she’s DEAD?’
‘That’s a word I wish you hadn’t said.’
----------
Britain’s most prolific serial killer, with around 186 victims, Dr. Harold Shipman had a delphic way of breaking bad news.
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