Believe it or not, Inchcock created this depiction of his Sock-Glide from memories of a nightmare, that the poor old fart suffered two nights ago. It’s so sad!
Inchcock Reveals His Current Fears!
Reading further may cause harm to your sanity!
Born, and got myself double-pneumonia,
Thrown in the canal, I nearly drowned in 1954,
I got rescued, only scared, wet and sore,
The medics said the boss is going to warn yer,
The Doctor said “You’ll never get brawnier”,
Next, I got shot, then the Duodenal Ulcer,
Top of the charts was ♫24hrs from Tulsa♫,
Then the hernia, and bladder cancer.
Had to have the ticker transplanted, years ago,
It doesn’t bother me now, though,
Then I went and got shot again,
I knew my bad luck had to end, but when?
I stopped working in the Security industry, then!
I came off my motor-bike in the fog,
Out of hospital, had some police dialogue,
They fined me £20, speeding, I was agog!
Got a job driving a delivery van,
And became quite a Casanovan,
Got made redundant three times, lucky man!
Retired, well it was enforced of course,
But I had little remorse,
Got a part-time job, selling pickles and sauce,
When I reached 70, we had a discourse,
Then the Peripheral Neuropathy was diagnosed,
Got the tablets mixed-up, and overdosed,
They said stay indoor, well, I wasn’t opposed!
Then along came the stroke, of the ischaemic type,
Saccades, as well, of dear, this medical hype,
But I wasn’t one to moan and gripe,
I recovered, but physically, I’m a load of tripe,
They discovered I had diabetes,
Life became full of abstrusities,
My ailments seem to grow complexities.
Next, I’m using a walking stick,
Unbalanced, falling-over, it made me sick,
No choices then, at home I have to stick,
I fell, and gave my neck a crick,
I’m no longer the witty, clever-dick,
But I somehow cope, and that was fantastic.
Then along came to visit us,
The Corona Virus,
Isolation, no going out walking or on a bus,
Every day new instructions, what a fuss,
But at least I got rid of furuncle’s puss!
Until disabilities meant I couldn’t bend down,
And the worst, that really gets me down…
It’s bad enough doing your own syringes,
Is the bloody Sock-Glide, frame,
I gave it a go, I was really game,
But it keeps taking lumps out of my fingers,
And I don’t like these whinges,
Using the Sock-Glide means many cringes,
It’s not just the pain – mentally you’ll find it unhinges!
This claptrap was
rit rote, written by Inchcock, with dedication and stupidity in support of the Peterborough & District Failed Philharmonic Orchestra Players, collection fund for the Bankers & Investors Roadkill Hospice Advocacy Society.