Florence - an historical poem

This piece of silliness was inspired by a comment I overheard (thanks June) as a lady tried to describe another lady to her friend. I can't say a lot more without giving away the gag.

Anyway, nearly all of this is true, with one slight adjustment to history ...

Florence

Little Florence was born back in 1820
To a family that was blessed with plenty.
And they derived their fun and games
From messing around with the family names.

Mum’s name was Smith and dad’s was Shore
“Not good enough – we’ll use them no more.”
Her uncle’s name could hardly fail
So Florence became Miss Nightingale.

Named after the city of her birth
This could have led to so much mirth
If her parents hadn’t taken pains
To live in Tuscany and not in Staines.

Her sister must have worn a frown -
Born in the Greek part of town.
Could parents really be so dopey
To call their girl Parsinope?

But with talk of names we do digress
From the points we really should address
So let us focus on the tale
Of the famous Florence Nightingale.

The fact that I can now reveal
That her ample skirts did conceal
A defect passed down by her mother
One leg much shorter than the other.

As Florence used to hobble round
She made a most alarming sound.
Her footsteps walking down the road
Like a string of “A”s in Morse code!

With a six inch gap between her knees
She stood at forty five degrees.
“Quite a problem” the doctor said
But great for leaning over a bed.

These words had a profound effect
And her new career she did select.
To her family’s disgust and cursing
Florence decided to enter nursing.

Having finished all her training
Florence soon began complaining
She even helped to change the law
To make life better for the poor.

This sort of thing can soon annoy
The 1850s Hoi Polloi.
So driven by their jealous fear
They sent her off to the Crimea.

Looking back it seems quite quirky
Where she ended up - in Turkey.
For a front line post she’d been hopeful
But ended up in Constantinople.

She said “I really think I’d rather
Be somewhat nearer Balaklava.”
But the local hospital was full
In the place we now call Istanbul.

And whilst the view was more than scenic
The hospital was not hygienic.
And the poor sanitary conditions
Killed more than did Russian munitions.

They cleaned the sewers, scrubbed the wards
Bringing hope to injured hordes.
And Florence’s familiar clip … clop
Patrolled the wards with her bucket and mop.

With one leg short and one leg tall
‘Twas a miracle that she didn’t fall.
She struggled on, she was no wimp
She was “The lady with the limp.”