Colin F. Jones


They will come when I’m old and take me away
When I am too frail to have any say.
They will treat me as a child and when I complain,
They’ll dose me with drugs saying it’s for pain.
They won’t really care if I live or I die,
And in silent frustration and anger I’ll cry;
I’ll be trapped in my old body helpless and sad,
Until the drugs mash my brains and send me quite mad.
Then I’ll be put in a dungeon with other poor souls,
With bars and locked doors designed for old fools
Who have lived in a year more than they have in ten,
But whose bodies now whither in an institutional pen.
And I’ll remember those soldiers I served with in war,
Who were so lucky to die for something worth dying for.