To Die or Not to Die?
To Die or not To Die, now, that is a question.
Not quickly or too painfully or out of the blue.
And what does death actually mean?
Like the idea of a young man's death
Shagging, boozing, falling through the ice
After New Year reveleries.
But as you are drawing your final ice chilled breath
What if you have a change of heart?
In a flash, the idea of warm custard and Aretha Frankin
Might make you change your mind.
And if you throw youself from a tall tower
There's no way of defying gravity
Deciding gravy served with roast spuds are worth living for.
A big plate of pink beef and braised celery won't magic itself
And act as a platform for you to soft land in buttery mash just won't appear to break your fall.
The slow way, like slow cooked lamb has its compensations.
Are school dinners the only way to save you?
Or starting each day with a swig of Henry Weston's cider?
Better than a bowl of cornflakes.
Warming and apple tasting, this vintage product has its apple peel.
And there we have it. Bad puns - apple peel, appeal.
That is the best you can do when it comes to what you really, really need.
To be a mistress of clever phrases;
Why, oh why, oh why?
Everything that is worth saying has already been said.
And anything worth saying that hasn't already been put into words
Won't be articulated by me.
Bob Dylan said: nothing succeeds like failure
And failure is no success at all.
Failure, failure, failure.
Let's not go there.
One woman's failure is subjective, of course.
But I know how failure tastes and looks and smells.
What of success?
What is that really like?
Success, success, success?
How does that taste and look and smell?
Don't know. But willing to give it a go.
Your starter for ten. Tell me what it is like.
I do so want to know.
It is having a face like Annie Lennox and a voice like Billie Holiday and a figure like Marilyn Monroe?
Being able to drink champagne without suffering a hangover; being able to walk for miles on legs like elastic springs?
Being Tina Brown or Ophra Winfrey?
Having ten children clustering round you on your fiftieth birthday with home made gifts?
Is it soaring through the glass ceiling in your Channel size zero suit?
Is it suffering but writing poems like Emily Dickinson?
Or is it just snuggling under the duvet, listening to Woman's Hour and making resolutions to be a better person?