My ol' uncle refuses even to consider the idea.
Something is wrong; he's coughing blood
But he just lights up another heater,
Saying, "Never killed me before.
I'll have a couple more fingers of bourbon, barkeep."
He is dying.
It doesn't mean he will actually die.
No, there's no reason for it.
But somehow it seems, all joviality aside,
That he's had his run and doesn't care much
But to have another and another and tell jokes
And make believe and throw his arms up,
"Nobody could have done better,
But sometimes you hit the end of the road."
As if dull platitudes absolved him of suicide.
"Bourbon, Sam?" "Yeah, sure, make it a double."