Suicide Poem by John Wathen

Some people think that the cure for all ills,
is a tumbler of scotch and a handful of pills.
Others swear to end your life,
you need a nice hot bath and a good sharp knife,
I know that messy but I must confess, when your dead,
sod the mess.
Some people reckon to use a rope, but,
you must get the dropp just right,
or you'll just swing there,
dangling
strangling
until you end your life.
Now I have found the perfect way,
if I want to end my life,
its not a rope, knife or dope,
that will be the end of me.
I want to be shot by a jealous husband
at the age of ninety three.