Tomorrow

I think I’m going to die tomorrow,
But that doesn’t mean I want to.

I’m yet to eat some haggis
Or punch a grizzly bear,
I’m yet to kiss a Chinaman
Or shave my pubic hair.

I’m yet to ride a penny farthing
Or sell my Tracey Island,
I’m yet to run for president
Or buy my girl a diamond.

I’m yet to burst a white head
Or wipe an old man’s bum,
I’m yet to write a lullaby
Or truly thank my mum.

I’m yet to break a door down
Or paint a boiled egg,
I’m yet to make a Jaffa Cake
Or throw a turkey leg.

I’m yet to drive a motorcar
Or write a decent book,
I’m yet to win a poker match
Or dress like Captain Hook.

I’m yet to say that big “fuck you”
Or buy myself a pig,
I’m yet to tickle Bill Murray
Or wear a silver wig.

I think I’m going to die tomorrow,
But that doesn’t mean I want to.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

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