I can hear the clock ticking
In the corner of this mundane room.
It smells half of hospital,
Half of rotting flowers and you.
A sad pre emtative truth.

That horrible ticking noise
Grows louder!
Demanding to be heard,
While silently smirking that it can be.
You lay hear dying
And it is a silly old clock we listen to.
Its ticking quickens
As your heart slows.

They will want me to speak
After you go.
I should ask you now what it is you would have me say,
But you seem more engrossed in the packet of Marlboro reds, perhaps your last ever.

Still everyone deserves kind words
At their funeral,
Not that I have any to say
And you made sure there would be nobody else left on your behalf who would speak.
I am afraid the liquor cannot thank you
For the years you drained on it.

Perhaps I could tell them of the time
When I was still young enough to have ***** finger nails and grazed knees
And I fell - tumbling to the ground with such force tears welled in my eyes and soon I was screaming out your name.

You came to my rescue, like the Knight I thought you were.
You patched me up good and took me for food.
I could tell them how this evening was my favourite with you, and how I am sorry that I lost this to liquore.

As I my mind returns to the place at hand,
And I consider telling you this
That horrible ticking ceases to exist,
Taking you with it.