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I could make a ground glass sandwich, just add a little Mustard,
put the World out of it’s misery, and top this gloomy bastard.
I could tie a millstone round my neck and dive into a gully,
or drop a piano on my head, with a clever system of pulleys.
I could make some footwear for myself, from quick drying cement,
or mow myself into a pulp in a bizarre lawn incident.
I could do a Sigourney Weaver, and jump into hot Lead,
(but might find out years later that I’m still not actually dead).
I could do it in the Library, with the candlestick,
or mainline bleach into my vein with just a little prick.
I could overdose on Cillit Bang and walk towards the light,
or take a stroll, all dressed in black, on a train track at midnight.
I could play golf during thunderstorms in a costume made of Tin,
or wait for waste collection day in a big black Wheelie Bin.
I could plug in all my power tools, whilst lying in the bath,
or smoke in bed relentlessly, for a chargrilled epitaph.
I could wrap myself in lettuce leaves, and jump in with the rabbit,
or pick a fight, out in the street, with someone psychopathic.
I could play my records backwards, a shotgun at my side,
and try to find some message, be it real or implied.
All these things that spring to mind about self termination,
that make it seem a tad passé that I still choose Fermentation.
Too young to die, too pissed to live, too bored to fucking try,
with everything to live for, except an idea why.
And when I’m gone the priest will read, without much hesitation,
“He lived and died, that’s all to say, with no imagination…”
About this poem
It's fairly self explanatory.
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