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Poetry from within


“Red call please”, Its two in the morning,

Call comes through without a warning.

“Woman, 30, short of breath”,

We hit the road to stop her death.

She's somewhere in the heart of town,

Blue strobes flash, we hurtle down.

Taxis flash and steer away

To not impede us on our way

Drunks shout crudely as we pass,

One bends down and shows his arse

In the road; we have to swerve

And brake, not hit this bon viveur

Traffic lights have gone to red,

We bleed off speed and check ahead

One car waiting, has it seen us?

Our green and yellow, blue-light bus.

Edging through, we keep on searching,

way is clear, accelerating.

Sat Nav states “Near destination”

It's the night club by the station.

We park and take our medical kit

And struggle through the crowd with it

The doorman says “Not called from here,

I've checked and we are in the clear”

A shout then ”Tossers! Over 'ere,

I've waited long enough

I'm dying, I need medicine,

Listen to me…”


Mark Rand