On St Patrick’s day my score was nine point two.
Maybe I am about to get the regular flu.
In spite of all the tablets I take.
The magic number Six I cannot make.
Every night the Insulin counts to twenty six.
Resembling a drug addict going for a fix.
I am told it goes into the cell.
What good it does I cannot really tell.
The Pancreas has gone away to sleep.
The reward of all the chocolate now I reap.
A perpetual hostage to tablets and syringe.
Doctor says that nature takes revenge.
Every morning at eight the score I keep.
And when it’s high I want to sit and weep.
Would I be better off in not knowing.
And let sugar keep on flowing.
It seems to me I am the master of my fate.
At least for diabetes at any rate.
I will still have to measure, measure,measure.
And build in exercise for my leisure.
I know a diabetic man who is eighty one.
He still treasures life and has his fun.
In spite of limitations we can go on.
Live,love life and hum our song.
copyright 2007 Professor Nessan Ronan