THIRTY-NINE MINUTES

When the doctor gave me his diagnosis, He didn’t deliver a happy prognosis. He told me I had just twelve months to go. Not really the news I wanted to know. Now almost a year has passed since that day. I’ve just thirty-nine minutes to while away. A final meal? Put the kettle on. And I’ll boil an egg. That’s four minutes gone. I’ll wash it down with a nice cup of tea And, while I’m eating, I’ll watch T.V. There’s a programme that lasts for thirty minutes And, if I’m lucky, I’ll see all that’s in it. It’s almost finished: just 2 minutes more. But now I hear a knock at the door. Ah, the credits are rolling; I’ve just survived. My time is up. The Grim Reaper’s arrived.