Gordon Nightingale

When the hip began to grumble,
And the pain began to grow,
And my running days were over;
It came as quite a blow.
I used to pride in running fast
And running very far,
Now I’d limp with a walking stick
From the front door to the car.

“Hip replacement needed!”
So the surgeon said to me,
Now there’s a hunk of titanium
Where the hip joint used to be.

“Your teeth are so uneven!”
My good lady told me clear,
“So go and get the damned things fixed;
Your smile is rather queer.”
Caps to top and bottom teeth,
Titanium plate to fill the spaces,
Titanium implants to hold it in
In all the proper places.

Now I can smile in public
And won’t get a single sneer;
It cost the price of a Mercedes Benz,
But still I shed no tear.

Now the right knee’s playing up,
It clicks and groans in protest.
When I take a longish walk,
It demands to stop and rest.
The pain keeps me awake at night
When I need my beauty sleep,
So off to the local Doc I went;
Asked him to take a peek.

“A referral to a surgeon, mate,
Your knee joint is the pits.
A titanium joint’s the way to go
To get you out of this fix.”

Soon I’ll be the Titanium Man,
A cyborg through and through;
Stronger than a thousand men…
If only it were true.


Gordon Nightingale is an author and poet who has contributed regularly to The Wombat Post. He recently moved from Daylesford and now lives in Corowa.