Let Me Die A Rogue Timelord's Death (After Roger McGough)

Let Me Die a Youngman's Death

Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death

Roger McGough

Let Me Die a Rogue Timelord's Death

Let me die a Rogue Timelords' death
not a thirteenth regeneration into
the matrex clean transition barely noticed death
not a Final Chapter, Lord President nods a few kind
words to Gold Usher, Tele-epitathical death.

When I'm 700
and only a little prone to forget
the names of my companions
may I regenerate while the first
world of the cybermen burns inverted
over the north pole.

When I'm 400 odd, stubbornly
insisting on counting my age backwards
may I be arraigned by the
High Council, for sticking
My nose in, where it was needed,
and die for my troubles, clowning.

Exiled (after over a 1,000 years
of Science, still not counting
in linear years) may I be
blasted by rads from
A ranting Spider-God,
fall off radio telescopically,
into a nest of poison,
die of a bad trip,
in a hail of San Francisco bullets
at the last Millenium,
sipping cosmic power from
a dying Rose,
or give my life saving one old man,
and Grandfather.

May I die at least another
three times, all gleamingful.