Ending It Gracefully

Homeless, friendless;
No place in the cold dark city
To lay her poor old head
Except the cold, cold gutter.
No mother to care for her;
Not a soul to give her succour.

Her life has been a catastrophe,
A series of disasters.
From birth has she led
A life of rank inconsequence.
Why not end it now?
She  could. She can. She must. She will.

In the lowly alley where
Her filthy, sore-covered body
Lies in soiled and odious rags
She resolves her terminating actions,
Crawling around drunkenly
Among the soggy rat droppings.

Searching for the wherewithal
With which to end her worthless life.
At last, a broken milk bottle - So
She takes it to her waiting throat.
But, sod it, it's made of plastic
And would not cut through butter hot.

So, instead of sharply slitting
Her eagerly attentive jugular,
She’s barely scratched the grimy epidermis.
And while she lies sobbing in the culvert
Some bloody passing pooch
Micturates thoughtfully on her balding cranium.

Splish! Splash! She’s taking a bath!

[I’d like to give posthumous thanks to Bobby Darin (1936-73) for that last line.]