Hancockery’s the Health Secret’ry, he’s called the hopeless twat
For he’s the useless Minster who ladies can call Matt
He’s the bafflement of medicos, the nursing college’s despair
For when they call the Dept of Health, Hancockery is there!
Hancockery, Hancockery, there’s no one like Hancockery
For he’s the one who sets the rules and makes of them a mockery
His hands across a lady’s arse would make CCTV stare
But when you call the Dept of Health – Hancockery is there!
Hancockery’s a ginger cad, he’s very tall and thin
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is smoothly free of thought, his head is highly domed;
His hands across your ladybumps very freely roamed.
He sways his head from side to side with an air of sweaty fright,
And when you think he’s half asleep you’re almost certainly right
He’s outwardly incompetent (and inwardly, they say)
And if his mistress wants a job then the rules all go away
But when the contract has been given, and billions have been spent
And rules sidelined or ignored, and regulations bent
Or when documents are missing and no-one seems to care
Ay, that’s the wonder of the thing! Hancockery’s still there!