If madness comes with my old age, I hope

It will be like his.  I don't want to sit

And moulder, witless in a cosy chair,  

waiting for death to tap me on the back.

I'd sooner run away and take a leap

into a story-book, a make-believe.

Dress like a warrior-queen in rainbow bright

Eccentric clothes; pursue unlikely loves.

Fight for imaginary right, battle

imaginary wrong. Then, finally,

when I can't help it any more; cornered,

caught by the mob from Health and Social Care,

Managed, tidied, tucked up into my bed,

I'll tell them. "I was never mad." I'll say,

"I was pretending, making sure I had  

a riotous, disgraceful final fling.

Now you can put the lights out. I'll be gone."