When life deals dregs of an awful hand,
Hourglass dribbling remaining sand,
And one’s anticipation is intervals of pain,
That rouse from a stupor in which one’s lain,
Grim Reaper approaches—slow, slow thief,
Assisted suicide’d be sweet relief.
But uncaring official says, “Nope!”
You must stay and always have hope.
Must hold the course to the bitter end,
Your sick, dying body someone will tend.
If pain’s too unbearable sanity to keep,
We’ll give you drugs to ease your sleep.
It’s sinful to die if you can possibly live,
For your family still has assets to give.”
If I could drop life when it’s time I do,
I’d hope you’d be spared end misery too.
But you’re doing your thumping best
To make sure I hang on without rest,
And feel guilty for wanting peace
And being willing to give up my lease.
On my pain you insist, so in that case,
I do have hope—let’s cut to the chase:
I hope you live for a thousand years,
Every second crying sad, painful tears,
Dying a little each and every day,
With your fingers and toes rotting away,
With boils rising on your skin at night,
To be dull lanced when swollen tight.
I hope each day your hemorrhoids grow,
Bulbous orbs that pain to your toe.
Your skeletal muscles draw to a knot,
And diarrhea glues you to the pot.
Urethra becomes one great infection,
Your liver atrophys section by section.
Your feet grow corns that hurt like hell,
Keep you from walking except in your cell.
Oh, yes. I hope you’re incarcerated for life,
To atone for the misery you want to be rife.
And just when you think you’re loving life,
I hope you get skinned with a kitchen knife.
An added list I could hope that’s tougher,
Bottom line Bitter Ender—I hope you suffer!