the suicide kid

    I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed.

    but all I could do was to get drunk again.

    worse， the bar patrons even ended up liking me.

    there I was trying to get pushed over the dark edge

    and I ended up with free drinks

    while somewhere else some poor son-of-a-bitch was in a hospital bed，

    tubes sticking out  all over him

    as he fought like hell to live.

    nobody would help me die as the drinks kept coming，

    as the next day waited for me with its steel clamps，

    its stinking anonymity，

    its incogitant attitude.

    death doesn't always come running when you call it，

    not even if you call it from a shining castle

    or from an ocean liner

    or from the best bar

    on earth （or the worst）。

    such impertinence only makes the gods hesitate and delay.

    ask me： I'm 72.