Choose
Do you want an axe to lop
off your aching head?
Or while asleep your heart to stop
then you’re stink’n dead.
Lose all you have or will have
in a head on crash.
Freeze to death while smoking
some Middle Eastern hash.
Mr. Fate says you’ll die tomorrow,
middle of the night.
He says you get to choose
the method and the site.
Choose the mode in which you lose
life’s fragile, precious spark.
You have time on this Earth.
Time for one last snide remark.
You may choose the method
your body loses living soul.
In the dead of heat
or skiing fluffy snow.
Die while saving someone
from a five alarm fire.
You say you’re ready for death,
but I know you’re an f’n liar.
It is true my friend,
on this Earth, you are almost done.
Just thirty-six hours more,
to have a little fun.
Normally you wouldn’t know
the place nor the hour.
Fate foretold you choose your death
even choose your flowers.
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