The Doctor thought, when David's health was failing,
Of duodenal ulcers he was ailing;
And so they opened him and found the answer:
His trouble was a case of kidney cancer;
And seeing operation would be vain,
The surgeon simply sewed him up again.

And so once more my husband's heart is stout,
For he believes they cut the evil out,
And pretty soon he will be fit and well,
I watch him tenderly, yet dare not tell
The truth to him, although I am his wife -
That he has just a few more months of life.

A few more months of agony and sweat,
Of wistful wonder why he doesn't get
A little better with each passing day,
And why the gnawing pains won't go away.
It's only morphine gives him brief relief:
I smile and smile, - yet oh my heart of grief!

He makes believe that he is not so bad,
And plans a future sunshiny and glad;
But I can hear him sigh and sigh again:
"Tre happiness is not to suffer pain."
And so he tries to smile and act up brave,
The poor soul with one foot well in the grave.

I dare not tell, for if he only knew
The blackness of the rat that gnaws him through,
I know he'd mix some poison in a cup
And in desperation drink it up . . .
Well, maybe if that brought him peace and rest,
It could be, yes it would be for the best.

I might prepare a deadly draught myself,
And leave it careless on the bedside shelf . . .
But no, though anguish may my bosom rend,
I'll watch him agonize unto the end.
So pity us, a poor pretending pair,
He with a heart of terror, I - despair.