For the third time this year I am hearing about a peer with a second (third even) primary cancer...
when did they say
it had come back again?
knowing what to expect,
from this unwelcome friend,
would make event a Sainte,
face the news like a drain,
and the humour you found before,
hard to maintain?
there’s an aura of hope,
in the wishes we make,
and a bare faced control,
in the risks that we take,
and painting a smile
(though inside you shake)
and gluing on hair, once more,
just seems so fake?
getting out, getting up,
there’s a mountain to climb,
but one foot then another,
it’s an organised crime,
and don’t tell me the genes,
there’s not reason or rhyme?
there are boobs, there are bumps,
and a grand pantomime?
