In a hospital bed on the outskirts of town
Lay an old gray man in a soiled white gown.
His hair was all wispy, his eyes were a blank.
His breath came in spurts from an oxygen tank.
The nurse hovered near, and so did the Reaper.
But which had the number to his private beeper?
Shall he lie there forever with a tube up his nose
And his peepee and poopoo slipping out through a hose?
Or shall he be released to float towards the light?
Like a wee, baby doveling or a really good kite.
Let him go! Let him go!
It's too late for healing.
Put an end to the pain
That we know he is feeling.
His life is his burden
His death is his right.
Let's send him off gently
Into that good night.