Let me die a young man's death.

Not a clean and inbetween

the sheets holywater death.

Not a famous-last-words

peaceful out of breath death.

When I'm 73

and in constant good tumour

may I be mown down at dawn

by a bright red sports car

on my way home

from an all night party.

Or when I'm 91

with silver hair

and sitting in a barber's chair

may rival gangsters

with hamfisted tommyguns burst in

and give me a short back and insides.

Or when I'm 104

and banned from the Cavern

may my mistress

catching me in bed with her daughter

and fearing for her son

cut me up into little pieces

and throw away every piece but one.

Let me die a youngman's death.

Not a free from sin tiptoe in

candle wax and waning death.

Not a curtains drawn by angels borne

'what a nice way to go' death.

-

Roger McGough