Sunday, 24 August 2014

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

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