Suicide

A monologue written by Roy Clegg and Harold Clegg-Walker in 1931. Now I am a fellow who’s lived— I’ve lived and I’ve loved and I’ve lost, I loved a fair damsel who didn’t love me, So my fate to the winds must be tossed. She laughed when I tried to be serious, Her pretty heels trampled my heart, The future means nothing, so now I must die, But the question is—how do I start? To jump in a river and drown Is a good plan, or so I’ve been told. But if some poor simpleton does fish you out, You get such a terrible cold. To turn on the gas and be smothered Is one way, but you never can tell If someone will biff in and spoil the whole thing, And just curse you for making a smell. To hang by the neck on one’s braces Is sometimes considered the thing, But I fear mine would hardly stand up to the strain, For already they’re tied up with string. I like the idea of revolvers, I’d prefer to be shot than to hang, But ever since childhood I’ve always been scared Of things that go off with a bang. I once had a vague sort of notion Of leaping beneath an express, But one has to consider one’s fellows, you know, The chappies who clear up the mess. Still the Underground might offer scope, One could sit down upon a live rail, But that involves trespassing—what a disgrace If the corpse had to serve time in jail. Now Keatings kills bugs, moths and beetles, In that case it ought to kill me. The butler must make me some sandwiches, James! No. Dash it! he’s gone out to tea. Never mind though, there must be some way, Such as hurling yourself from a cliff, Even then you might find that you’d only been stunned, And you’d wake up most frightfully stiff. I’ve given up thinking of razors, I’ve tried and I’m wondering yet How those fellows who do it can cut their own throats, It’s a thing beyond my Gillette. No, really, I’m finding that this sort of thing’s Not as easily done as it’s said. So I think I’ll pop off for the week-end or so— And perhaps shoot some rabbits instead.