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The Ferrari of his blessed dreams;
Comfy like Hakeem the prince;
Except for this afternoon,
And every other time coming soon.
"A lump is growing on your left lung."
Taste of bile is on his tongue.
His diagnosis: the proverbial bitter pill;
Swallows hard as he steers the wheel.
His life now is a pack of candy,
Yet he craves some shots of brandy.
"We'll do all the best we can."
Right, they also said those words to Dan;
Now he lies six feet below,
Though their best had made him borrow.
One hand on his left chest;
Feels for realities of his medical test;
Chills race down his backbone.
He can envision his grave stone:
Nineteen-eighty to two thousand and nine;
Sam dies at the age of twenty nine.
His ride is waved to a stop.
His thought rants, "what the hell is up!"
"Sir, you need an alternative route."
An accident ahead, no doubt.
It is a few walks away from his car,
There smoke and a crowd gather.
Beside a wrecked jeep is laid the loss:
Mr. McCartney, His multimillionaire boss.
Belly feels like he gulped a slug.
God! How many moguls are in the mog?!
Throws up nothing except the shock;
Finds a bar around the block;
Raises a glass to his demise at the corner;
Another glass to this morbid encounter.
He pores into the third glass;
The common plague still hits his class.
Eyes closes in hope to clear his head;
This fate can change somewhere ahead.
"Well, at least I'm still alive."
He says as his face begins to revive
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