At forty-three, in broken health,
The heel of Fate has crushed my pride;
No joy I find in work or wealth—
There’s nothing left but suicide.
The wind blows ever from the east;
It’s madness now my trike to ride;
My pony’s lame, poor little beast—
There’s nothing left but suicide.
My hair is thin, my face is fat,
My waist is spreading far and wide;
Last week I lost my favourite cat—
There’s nothing left but suicide.
I am not starred on any bills,
The critics all my work deride;
I’m sick of taking draughts and pills—
There’s nothing left but suicide.
I am too sad to make a joke,
The girl I love’s another’s bride;
The doctors will not let me smoke—
There’s nothing left but suicide.
My house, I find, is built on clay,
In vain to let it I have tried;
The income tax is due to-day—
There’s nothing left but suicide.
What’s this?—a box of chocolates,
With pale pink ribbon neatly tied?
The “sweets of life” again, O Fates,
I taste, and laugh at suicide.