As you age into grace,

Equal to the oldest of imperial linemen,

Take a cup of tea,

Green or black,

Loose leaf or bagged,

And digest one-by-one 

The units of vitamin and cholesterol,

Heart and hernia, gizzard and gulch,

til you’ve ingested an investment

In Medica America, “We keep you alive,

And in the best state we can,

Given the excess or limit

Of your own medications of the previous

Ten, twenty, thirty, 

forty, fifty, sixty, 

seventy, eighty, ninety

Or more years you’ve invested.

Sure your mind is clear,

A blank slate so to say,

But we’ll have it rewired in no time

For a not very significant sum.

Sign on the dotted line.”

The lines are broken in half

Then splintered in three,

And you measure your fate

By the roll of the die,

The shuffle of the yarrow stalk,

The mumbles of scribbles

Almost three thousand years old.

An ancient king pronounced them,

And wisemen interpreted them,

And the money men wielded them

Until the beggars took over

And you stared at your scare-crow thin skillcup

Begging for one more day

To take a bowl of pilules

Or simply slit your throat

And slide into the muddied waters.