The Tories,
Hated Nye Bevan,
But he created,
The NHS,
For everyone,
Rich or poor,
And free
At the point,
Of delivery,

Now the NHS,
Beloved by the nation,
Has reached its destination,
Pensioned off,
At 75,
Privatised,
Under the guise,
Of contracting out,
All the parts,
The entrails too,
Disembowelled,
And devoured,
By the insatiable greed,
Needed to feed,
The financial contagion,
Of Banks
Merchant banks,
Investment banks,
Shadow banks,
Hedge funds, 
And vulture funds,

  
Dubious free trade treaties,
Legalised financial liberalisation,
And regulatory harmonisation,
Which in proper parlance,
Meant the tax avoiding,
Bonus addicted,
Legal loan sharks,
And thieving psychopaths,
Could legally plunder,
And wreck asunder,
Our NHS,
For billions,
Each and every year.

A right old caper,
NHS money used and abused,
Pushing paper,
Instead of treating the sick,
A three-card trick,
Where by sleight of hand,
Money vanishes like sand,
In large amounts,
Into off-shore bank accounts.

The NHS will last,
As long as we fight for it,
Said Nye in 1948,
And if he came back today,
He’d say,
Stand up and fight,
To save the NHS.