At three o’clock, malt whisky (ten years old),
Napoleon brandy follows (warm and gentle),
to ease away concern a mind may hold,
about the planned assault upon “God’s temple.”

An apogee to years of aggravation
(a body racked by rampant throbs and aches);
four different ailments blend to cause frustration,
while giddiness, fatigue are nature’s brakes.

What lies ahead, is long and lingering pain,
the road sign-posted, death just round the bend;
no trace of fear but numbness in the brain,
the Reaper nearly welcomed as a friend.

The killer can be cancelled at a stroke,
then other treatments tested over time;
let surgeons try to lift the heavy yoke,
to hesitate prolongs the pantomime.

They pry apart the bars that guard the chest
and cut their way around the beating heart,
then bind with steel a bruised and broken breast
and wheel me out when happy with their part.

There is no cure for rheumatoid arthritis,
psoriasis, or even sinusitis;
but “lords of life” embark with dedication,
perform a double bypass operation.