The surgical ward is mainly happy and bright,
An emergency came in the other night,
The doctor looked at him, he wasn’t well he could tell,
On seeing below the man’s testicles started to swell.

It was down to the theatre he had to go,
To get them in the right shape,
The nurse saw the size of it, brought tears to her eyes,
She hid hers under her cape.

They got him back to the ward,
And the folk were waking up,
Temperatures taken, blood pressures done,
Someone’s had an enema, they’re on the run.

The nurses are busy with bed pans and bottles,
They’re usually kept busy in diferent shuttles,
A doctors dilemna is a prostate gland,
They’re always frightful, they lose their hand.

It’s time for lunch with dried up meat,
The bloke in the next bed is picking his feet,
Tea time’s arrived, it’s bread, jam and tea.
You’re eating away and false teeth you do see.

The matron’s not happy, the place isn’t clean,
Now get it together and let’s see it gleam,
So out come the brooms and mops and all things,
The beds some of them are held up by string.

So when you’re passing by the surgical ward,
Pop your nose in and have a peak,
See all the nurses go dashing about,
One goes on her knees cause she’s all clapped out.

But a nurse and a doctor are devoted in skills,
The patient opens his mouth and in goes the pill,
And when they are better they send them all home,
And hoping then they’ll never more roam.