well at last
well doctor i’m dying,
is there anything you can do?
and will it be painful?
and would you
suffer treatment for a long time
for such a little extra time?
no? me neither.
but they say the insects are dying
for our lifestyle.
they say the pollinators
cannot run the mile.
running out are the sands of time,
for there is so little time
to enjoy a decent dying,
on the deckchairs of global warming,
lapped by the rising tide,
and wrapped warm in every warning;
oh what a glorious time
to be having a glorious time.
you know there are people dying
in other parts of the world?
does in mean nothing to you
that the half-mast flag’s unfurled?
is it not the lifestyle of your lifetime,
that refuses to throw a lifeline in time?
but I don’t care if they are dying,
in other parts of the world,
they did not throw me a lifeline;
was it not their overpopulation that unfurled
over a long time up to my time,
the noose of news, the trapdoor of time?
think man! are not the species dying?
are not the storms pressing
you to think again?
is it not depressing
to be living (in) the end of time?
to be living (at) the end of time?
no! you say. you think i am dying?
well so are all of you.
it’s always someone else’s fault,
isn’t it? for it’s never down to you!
well it is this time,
it is this time.
nice to be living in interesting times to be dying
don’t you think? and thinking i will be the last
to close my eyes as i have always done
throughout the recent past,
when there WAS time;
but now we’ve past the last of time
to be free to enjoy the endgame of dying,
and to topple the queens and kings,
so settle back from checkmate
and to drink in the dregs of things.
the game-clock of time
has run out time
to say goodbye, I’m dying,
and wasn’t it a terrific joke,
to watch the back-to-the-wall clatter
when bespoke time was broke,
for now it’s time,
for one last time,
to say ...