Death isn't straightforward
And can't be defined-
We doctors need organs.
Please sign here on the dotted line.

But doctor, my baby, it's living and warm-
My dear, your child's brain dead, cortically deformed.
Its head is just a bag of porridge, cannot feel a thing.
Sign here on the dotted line and see more children live.

(When will the public get it through their heads
That harvesting of organs is our future source of strength.
I'm tired of hearing amateurs spout rubbish on the soul;
Now the gene pool's mapped we'll be re-writing all the rules.)

Look. I feel your pain... if only you'd understand this-
An article in The Lancet that mentions things you might have missed.
Doctor, I feel terrible. Nine months and now this hell.
Sign here on the dotted line. There's no need for your guilt.

I guess it has to be this way;
I've prayed hard for the both of us.
Good, and always remember this plus-
Your child has diminished moral status.

Then, as all the old manoeuvres
Circled in to get their way,
The child in question quietly died
And fled its decades utterly.

No time for grief or explanations,
The mother signed the dotted line,
Surgeons hurried to their business,
Then tissues cooling were revived.

And mystery is beautiful
And truth will have cold eyes
And good is still imperfect
For what within us lies.

© 2003 - Peter Nicholson

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