Copyright ©1993 John Wm Beckner - All Rights Reserved

A bullet to the brain,
Should certainly do the trick.
And end all the pain,
And do it rather quick.

Pills will also work,
And might be a better choice.
Death watches with a smirk,
Believing your family will rejoice.

A knife, I think not,
The pain too much to bear.
Blood pouring out so hot,
From my intestines laid bare.

A razor to the wrist,
An old standard for sure.
Slowly fade into the mist,
Accepting the final cure.

A rope around the neck,
A jump from the ladder.
A ponderous life to wreck,
Emptying soul with bladder.

A step from the ledge of the 32nd floor,
Will certainly make the day end.
There’ll be nothing left but splatters of gore,
No relative will grieve, nor even a friend.

Stepping in front of a car will work,
The faster the car the better.
Your body will flip, flop and jerk,
Like a struck Irish Setter.

Ingesting poison will kill the mood,
Convulsing limbs and constricting airway.
Just sprinkle it in my favorite food,
The pain will come and won’t go away.

If you to want ease the passing,
Try a closed garage and a running car.
The oxygen goes away with the gassing,
As you die, you’ll dream bizarre.

Whatever choice you make,
Will send you from here to hell.
As the final gasping breath you take,
No longer on earth will you bodily dwell.

Thinking of this earlier, I was truly wired,
And ready to select the final sorrow.
But thinking has made me way too tired,
So I’ll wait now to die until tomorrow.