‘A good death’, a phrase I hear more and more,
on Newsnight, yes, and on Radio Four.
I can’t quite get it, though I am trying;
it’s all to do with ‘assisted dying’.
It’s the term ‘good death’ I find perturbing;
it is unsettling, somewhat disturbing.
Living a ‘good life’; well, I understand this,
if, at doing so, I’ve been rather remiss.
But a ‘good death’? Really, I suppose
we’d all appreciate one of those.
I think I grasp the issues involved,
though they still all remain unresolved.
I understand it is not black and white,
that no-one is wrong, and no-one is right.
I’ve wrestled with all of the ‘ins and outs’
efforts to assuage the lingering doubts.
It’s a minefield, of course; it is true;
a no-go zone, the last, great taboo.
The term ‘good death’ is hard to define,
the end of our life, the end of time.
It’s better not to dwell on it, I guess;
it makes for more bewilderment, not less.
I am still conflicted, still confused,
It’s so convoluted I’m bemused.
Why does it bother me? I know it’s absurd.
But, really, it is just the sound of the words.
For in what way, exactly, can death be good?
If not a move to a better neighbourhood.