The way out is simple,
a winter walk in the hills
whisky by your side, down the whole bottle
then lie down in the buff
wait for hypothermia to set in
or, alternatively, swim out from the shore
until you can't swim no more
then sink like quartz, granite,
marble or sandstone; the sea-bed
is full of friends who've gone on ahead.

Another way, is to take a hundred
sleeping pills, but that's chemical;
you'll be beholden to the pharmacist.

Do not let Death pain you,
Do not let Death give you grief!
We pop up again like daffodils,
our yellow trumpets shining in the sun
in the heavenly gardener's world.

Whatever way you exit,
let it be quick and relatively painless
not hanging on a drip, artificially alive
in a ward full of the senile until you're a flat liner.

Go like a pharaoh sailing down the Nile
fall on your sword like a Roman
Single malt, single bullet,
you'll get through it like Hemingway -
with some dignity

and you'll soon be running around again
like a bull in Sevilla or Pamplona
in a new arena of blood.