PEOPLE WILL DIE.

No ailments or illness or stretch on a ward,
Or allergic reactions or cures to afford;
No bones in a cast or needles applied,
He got up one morning and quietly died.

He left without virtues or vices to tell,
Never smoke, drank or screwed and appeared to eat well;
Was as fit as a boy whilst as wise as a sage,
Though less known than his own passing age.

They said that his health was a thing to behold,
And if only it could have been bottled and sold,
Then we would have been able to buy it and use
Like a medicinal kind of produce.

And the autopsy people found nothing amiss;
No blockage or blister or carcinogenic.
His motor was as strong as a new vehicle’s
With the accrual of a few chemicals.

But like everyone here he was exposed to his share
Of the natural or not so emissions of air,
And was passive to everything passing him by,
Not only the things in the public eye.

Now he’s gone and we’re left with a hole to complete,
And a stone to erect and engravers to meet,
And with no family to speak off we’ll have to compose
A few lines of verse or of prose.

So here was a man, who nobody knew,
Yet was always polite and afforded his due;
Who died without cause, or affliction to find,
From a shortness of breath and a surfeit of time.