From Doctor Finlay To Doctor Foster Poem by Paul Reed

Back in the sixties, the telephone bell would clang
In Tannoch Brae and Janet would run alang
To answer sweetly that Doctor Finlay would attempt prognosis
On another case of whooping cough or tuberculosis

The whole drama was mild and sweetly scented
Designed for a Sunday evening that had been invented
To gently close out your weekend leisure
To end the week in comfort, entertainment and pleasure

Now we have another Doctor F
One who would be shown the red card by a ref
This foul-mouthed specimen, surname of Foster
Belongs to the terrible actors roster

The drama features horrible people
Who should be stuck at the top of a steeple
Or somewhere else far away from the human race
With their immoral ways, a waste of space

It set me thinking of how little we have achieved
In fifty years and it leaves me aggrieved
From being entertained and having a ‘feelgood' glow
Now we are soulless wretches with nowhere to go.