An English Hairbag Foresees His Death

 

I feel completely crap today -

There’s nothing more to say:

 

I know that I shall meet my fate

Somewhere upon the plate below

Face-down among the sprouts; a heart

attack’s the current way to go.

 

In twenty-seventeen, the pump

Of muscle underneath my ribs

Will have a sudden dicky-fit:

I’ve shook a seven! signed for Hibs!

 

Although in life, I’ve saved the odd cavy,

The time has come, for me to go:

Face-down, among the veg and gravy,

Poor Tom has gone below, below.

Poor Tom has gone below.

 

My buttocks quack, my arse blurts shite

Normally, it’s my mouth

As I feel the fangs of mortality bite

While freeing otters, way down south,

 

Enthroned in the downstairs privy, with the cat

 - She purrs away the time I spend on stools,

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools,

Etcetera; and that is it;

 

One day the cat and me, will both be shit,

And that, my friend, is it,

And that, is really it.

 

Not yet, my friend, Not yet,

Not yet. Let’s have another!

 - Drink, wife, job, life, lover…