Two-Needle Blues

I went to the Red Cross, I walked in the door
Checked in at a quarter past four.
I got to the waiting room, there was a line
Sat and waited a mighty long time.
The joint it was hopping, my blood pressure dropping, I knew things would only get worse
It was five after five when I finally arrived in the interview room with the nurse.
I went to the Red Cross and that's where I stayed
It turned into a two-needle day.

They took all my history, my temperature too
They counted my pulse and they passed me on through
With a stick in the finger, a pat on the head
And a seat on the blood-donor bed.
My right arm they swabbed it, with a needle they jabbed it, an air bubble jumped in the hose
“Oh no” said the nurse (and she muttered a curse) “This bag's got to go, I suppose.
Can we try the other arm?” I said “Okay,
let's make it a two-needle day.”

They found me an RN who works with IVs
She tickled my elbow and patted my knees
She marked with a pen where the vein showed up good
The second attempt, she drew blood.
Yes, my blood it was spilling, the pint-bag was filling, ten minutes went by with no pause
The volunteers took me to get juice and cookies and gave me a round of applause.
My arms they are sore, but I still wouldn't choose
to give up the two-needle blues.

What, you were expecting a raw, shocking memoir of drug addiction and depravity? Sorry.

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