Cancer in a Smart
Suburb
Damned if I’m going to die upon a Monday,
The Benz must have its weekly wash and shine.
Tuesday’s no day for death-beds either,
When friends turn up for barbecues and wine.
Wednesday is highly inconvenient,
Sailing till sunset, drinks round at the Club.
Thursday, of course, is my main golfing day.
(My handicap’s still thirteen, there’s the rub).
Friday has all my favourite sitcoms,
The ones the arty-farty critics panned,
Saturday is rugger, Rules or cricket
(I have a gold pass to the members’ stand).
Sundays, I’m churchwarden at St Mary’s.
(God knows the Vicar couldn’t do without me),
Then tea and tennis in the afternoon
Or sex – there’re always pretty girls about me.
There ought to be a special day for dying,
It shouldn’t come round more than once a year;
I’ll send a memo to the CEO!
I’ll bet my life He’ll jump at the idea.
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