I’ve got a dodgy pancreas
It’s really got me irked
What’s the point in having a pancreas
If your pancreas doesn’t work
The Islets of Langerhan sound right exotic
But they’re there under your skin
Where the beta cells do their handiwork
Producing Insulin
Something beat my beta cells
That’s what’s got me so pissed
Around last march I got the flu
And The Islets went ‘fuck this’
Now I’m saddled with prescription bags
Needles in my backpack
Shooting up four times a day
And no – it isn’t smack
It’s just my dodgy pancreas
It’s really not my fault
But my daily treat of something sweet
Has been brought to a halt
I’ve got a lifetime ban on Lucozade
A fatwa on Fruit Pastilles
Some people think I’m bonkers –
That’s a quote from Dizzee Rascal –
But they don’t know
The difference between ‘hyper’ and ‘hypo’
Ups and downs like a yo-yo
On a go-slow cos I’m low on carbohydrates
Makes me weak, sweat, shake, confused, irate
And what I hate the most
Is having to stop mid-coitus for a slice of jam on toast
And drying my toes with talcum powder
‘always wear clean socks’
If you don’t do it your feet might smell
But they might have to chop mine off
And ‘ooh do you have to inject yourself?
‘I couldn’t do that’ they cry
‘okay, fair enough’ I say
‘then you’d just die.’
Like Ella, Bob Marley, Jonny Cash,
It’s a fucking long list, I’ve read it
It’s not quite the 27 club,
more a dancehall for dead diabetics.
afayewithwords 