I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed.
but all I could do was to get drunk again.
worse， the bar patrons even ended up liking me.
there I was trying to get pushed over the dark edge
and I ended up with free drinks
while somewhere else some poor son-of-a-bitch was in a hospital bed，
tubes sticking out all over him
as he fought like hell to live.
nobody would help me die as the drinks kept coming，
as the next day waited for me with its steel clamps，
its stinking anonymity，
its incogitant attitude.
death doesn't always come running when you call it，
not even if you call it from a shining castle
or from an ocean liner
or from the best bar
on earth （or the worst）。
such impertinence only makes the gods hesitate and delay.
ask me： I'm 72.