Euthanasia

Euthanasia it’s called

By

James Bredin

The day may come when I’m very old and barely alive,
Preferably when I’m more than a hundred and five,
And I want to arrange to die among my friends,
It may be legal by then… it all depends.

Arrange to die with dignity and then just check out,
Everything arranged so there will be no doubt,
Throw a big party with booze and coffin standing by,
Music and singing and then a final good bye.

Have someone there to make sure I’m really dead,
Then off to the cemetery with the shiny hearse ahead,
Then down in a hole which has already been dug,
In there for eternity feeling a bit snug.

Euthanasia it’s called; maybe popular by then,
Have a piper playing and someone shout amen,
No need for lawyers or priests because it’s all arranged,
Time may come when these ideas are not so strange.

Saturday, March 11, 2006