Arthur always said that his life was tough,
and complained for fifty years that he’d had enough,
It seemed to Arthur a strange twist of fate,
that ninety-nine years he was forced to wait,
in the miserable life that he despised so much,
dribbling soup and out of touch.
With nothing at all left to treasure.
His life had diminished in every measure.
Everyday was like a thousand years,
with songs sung senselessly among aging peers.
Often Arthur fell into an open-mouthed gaze,
and watched the movies his life had made,
wishing that death would whisk him away
and relieve him of his endless stay.
When it finally arrived it was no great surprise,
the nurse looked into his colourless eyes.
Arthur was dead and surely happy,
blissfully unaware of his loaded nappy.

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