That great disease

I think to myself t'were I

To die in this bed where I lie,

Things would not be so bad:

Not for you-one less burden, one you care not for

Not for me-one less day till I reach heaven's door.

But I have not the courage the strength nor the will

To take my own life to make my heart still.

And the knife by my bed cannot cut me

And the gun by the drawer cannot pierce me

And the razor in the sink cannot slice me

And the hopes in my head cannot put me

Out of this misery

We all like to call

Life.