Odds on we'll mostly end our hours
Where disinfectant smells prevail,
Where tetchy nurses shift the flowers
And trolleys clank and bodies fail.
And whether we still feel surprise,
Or whether pills have glazed our eyes,
We shall not know much more than this:
That Death must deal its dirty kiss;
We may not feel its yellow bite,
But that last blight both fierce and trite
Will fast or slowly steal our breath.
I think too much about my death.