When I Grow Old I Will Eat A Purple Heart
Dying should be nice and neat,
A festival of fun:
One moment we are on our feet,
The next, we are undone –
What’s all this with feeling ill?
Doctor, pass the happy pill.
In the Joan and Darby queue,
Let’s pick up the beat –
One moment at the barbecue,
The next one, well-cooked meat.
Doctor, this is life, let’s sex it
Before we make a sudden exit.
Let’s cut out the slow decline,
The plastic hips and knees:
Leave us, Doctor, feeling fine,
And free from slow disease –
Let us get there, blithe and lithe,
Before the Reaper draws his scythe.
At the age of ninety-six,
Let your capsule’s glory
Be old’uns up to dirty tricks,
And not mementoes mori :
Medics, make us misbehave
Before condemned to crem or grave.
Click here for a Telegraph article
Click here to buy Bill’s poetry collection, Ringers
