Gillian Ewing: . . . Or Not To Be

It's time to shuffle off this mortal coil
But I must find a method that won't spoil
The grand effect of death; a dose of pills
Is too mundane an end for all my ills.
While some may favour falling off a yacht
A long-immersed cadaver's clearly not
A pretty sight; and swinging on a rope
Beneath a forest tree gives little scope
For the creation of suspicious twists.
There's too much blood in slitting of the wrists;
Poison in unreliable, I think,
And most unsavoury to eat or drink.
I don't possess a gun; I fear the mess
From jumping down in front of the express
To Leeds, An M6 pile-up at top speed
Might put me in a coma, and I need
Somewhere to leave a moving final note,
Forgiving messages, perhaps a quote
From C Rossetti or an ode by Keats.
Well, as Ophelia (was it?) murmured 'Sweets
Unto the sweet, farewell.' What did she mean?
At least it made a touching farewell scene.

Now here's another problem – I could cry –
I've quite forgotten why I want to die.