I've reached that dangerous age, they say;
Less in front than there is behind.
But don't think I'm ready for the chop just yet,
For that would be too unkind.
But not young any more, and not quite old,
Yet still a straggler from the pack;
To be picked off by the wolves of cancer
And stroke, or the ubiquitous heart attack.
But wait, it needn't be like that,
For I've a cunning plan, you see.
Not for me the 'managed decline'
Into decrepit morbidity.
Have you guessed it yet? O come sir,
Think of the me you know;
That's it! I've decided to exit the scene
With the aid of a good Bordeaux.
Forget about claret in the bath,
For that's the Roman way; no,
Claret in a glass, about a thousand glugs,
Should be enough to dissolve my clay.
I'll choose a decent vintage and label,
And give each one time to take a breath.
Then settle myself somewhere comfortably,
And drink myself to death.
