Every day they exercise their God-given right all of their various maladies and twinges to recite. Over coffee in the morning and martinis after five, they nod their heads with wonder that they are still alive.
Over pork with wine sauce, they whine about their bladders. They complain about dizziness. They cannot ascend ladders. Obstructions in their bowels and needed hip replacements seem not to curb their appetites for listing such debasements.
From head to toe, they tell the rest each disease and malfunction, discuss medicine and herbs, consider extreme unction. They moan about their neck aches and complain about each corn. This relation of their aches and pains amounts to senior porn!
As though proud of each new symptom, they relate them with some glee, hoping to receive some newfound sympathy from me, but in fact I’ve heard all of their ills time and time again, and I think that it’s their telling that is a royal pain!!
Incoherent messages from your come-hither eyes often contradict your usual disguise. When your eyes invite me yet your mouth is so severe, I hesitate to steal a kiss, let-alone come near. So even though my radar tells me you’re inviting, I abandon future plans for fear you will be biting!
My daydreams lack a focus. They float by like a cloud. It is as though much logic is simply not allowed. Should plans besmirch my reverie, I’m sure to blot them out, for my thoughts are vagabonds—aimless, without a doubt. A mortarboard and tassel lurk far within my past, and I fear the plans they made simply didn’t last I lie here in my lounge chair, getting too much sun. I should raise the umbrella, for sunburn is no fun, but I cannot stir myself. I’m simply far too lazy. Retirement would be easier if all the skies were hazy!
Nobility in dying is something I shan’t botch, for I know it shall be one that the whole wide world will watch. I cannot go by fire, for I’m sure I would be screaming as the water quenched the fire and set my flesh to steaming.
So unseemly and so crass. I’d find it unappealing. So, too, a rope around my neck, hanging from the ceiling. Jumping from a roof won’t do. Nor will a gun nor pills. Every sort of suicide just sports too many ills.
It’s clear that death by avalanche is the only one that will really suit me when the day is done. A certain swift clean fall of snow seems such a pristine death. A queenly mode of dying. Such a regal final breath!