Arrr! The Northern Gaza infirmary be as dry as Davy Jones' locker, with no grub nor grog for the poor souls!
2024-12-10
Arrr, me hearties! The healers o' Gaza be shoutin' that scores o' poor souls be dancin’ with Davy Jones, fer the Indonesian Hospital be runnin’ dry o’ grub and grog! Aye, a right pickle they be in, if they don't get their rations soon!
Arrr mateys! Gather 'round, fer a tale from the troubled waters of Gaza, where the health ministry be cryin’ like a parched parrot! Aye, it seems scores o’ poor souls be hangin’ on the edge of Davy Jones’ locker, faced with death’s cold embrace, all ’cause the Indonesian Hospital be runnin’ dry o’ water and grub! Shiver me timbers!These patients be strugglin’ like a fish outta water, their bellies a rumblin’ and their throats as parched as a desert isle! The good folks in charge be scratchin’ their heads, ponderin’ how to keep the lanterns of life aglow when the supplies be as scarce as a mermaid’s kiss. It’s a right pickle, I tell ye!
I reckon the hospital be needin’ a fleet of hearty sailors, sailin’ the seven seas to fetch fresh vittles and sweet nectar! Or perhaps a band of mischievous monkeys to raid the nearest tavern! Aye, if only the winds be blowin’ fair and the stars align, these landlubbers could be saved from the clutches of the grim reaper!
So here’s hopin’ that help be on the horizon, and that these brave souls find a way to quench their thirst and fill their bellies! Yarrr! Let no man or woman be lost to such dire straits!