  AT forty-three, in broken health, The heel of Fate has crushed my pride; No joy I find in work or wealth— There’s nothing left but suicide. The wind blows ever from the east; It’s madness now my trike to ride; My pony’s lame, poor little beast— There’s nothing left but suicide. My hair is thin, my face is fat, My waist is spreading far and wide; Last week I lost my favourite cat— There’s nothing left but suicide. I am not starred on any bills, The critics all my work deride; I’m sick of taking draughts and pills— There’s nothing left but suicide. I am too sad to make a joke, The girl I love’s another’s bride; The doctors will not let me smoke— There’s nothing left but suicide. My house, I find, is built on clay, In vain to let it I have tried; The income tax is due to-day— There’s nothing left but suicide. What’s this?—a box of chocolates, With pale pink ribbon neatly tied? The “sweets of life” again, O Fates, I taste, and laugh at suicide. |
|
