There’s a suitcase in the bedroom
Tucked away behind some shoes
And I need it taken care of
If I fight the fight… and lose
If this rattle in my bronchi
Turns out more than merely noise
Is there someone I can count on
Who can disappear my toys?
There are several shapes and sizes
And there’s many different hues
Some use cords, and some use batteries—
(There’s one that’s blown a fuse)
There are some still wrapped in plastic—
They looked better on the shelf—
There are some that need a partner
And there’s some for just myself
If I find that I am dying
(Because everybody does)
I don’t want my kids inheriting
A box of… things that buzz
So I need a trusted confidant
To do some cleaning first
So my mostly mourning relatives
Won’t get to see the worst…
Then again… you know… forget it—
They’ll discover what they will—
They can find out I was human,
That I hadn’t gone downhill
If the worst they can discover
If I die beneath the knife
Is a suitcase full of sex toys…
Hell, I lived an awesome life.
According to Twitter, this verse took half an hour; I read this wonderful opinion piece in the NY Times, tweeted something about it, and thought “there’s a verse there somewhere.”.
But disposing of sex paraphernalia — actually all those embarrassing items you have stashed around the house — is something every boomer should be concerned about. The days are dwindling down to a precious few and some of you have a nasty cough. Do you want the people clearing out your house, particularly your children, to find those feathery, metallic, rubbery, polymer blend items you ordered one drunken night a few months after you’d been forced to take early retirement? Do you want them to know their big, tough construction worker dad liked to dress up in heels and a boa and sing “La La La” from “No Strings,” one of Richard Rodgers’s weaker efforts?
You may be thinking, “What do I care what my friends or children find in the house? I will be beyond embarrassment, I will be dead.” But you are wrong. Doctors now know that the human sense of embarrassment can last up to two weeks after the heart stops beating. Consider this statement from a boomer named Stanley: “I was lying on the operating table, then I had a feeling of leaving my body and looking down at myself and all I could think was, ‘Is my gut really that big?’ ” Look it up on the web.
The funny thing is… the thing that people would find out about me, eventually, is that I wrote doggerel on the internet, and nobody knew.
Sounds pretty boring, actually. Maybe I should hide a box of sex toys.
Hey–you’ve read this far, now something serious. There may be 10,000 or more dead because of Typhoon Haiyan. There is an immense need of help, and the Foundation Beyond Belief is one way you can help. Details are here–if we can’t count on the people who know God won’t help, who can we count on?