What The Atom-Bomb Shall I Do? Poem by Mark Heathcote

'What the atom bomb shall I do? '
When I can't control my bowel
Or bladder to urinate or do,
That all-important number 1 or number 2.

Of course, you can blow the world
To smithereens for all I care.
If I'm wheeled into that nursing home
There'll be no airs or graces, I swear.

I will be better off in the sanatorium,
Blazing-mad, about the ECT chair.
Then saddled in an orderly routine.
'Wondering who the hells washing my hair.'

To be fair there's not much difference
In-here-or-out-there! There's no control
When-all's-said-and-done, I'm a nuisance
A-has-been never will be again tadpole.

Oh, what faculties I took for granted
When my wiring and plumbing were fine.
Such anemic-drunks, eternally, lauded
Laughing at the Alc/vol in their urine.

As being only 3.8 they're lining the bars, in
Care homes, less than prostrate like tenpin-
Bowls... Look 'there's that tiny skip again.'
Over there by the yellow soiled-waist bin,
So old chaps I guess I'm officially now done in.