Life at a Premium

My nerves are a fright,
And I toss at night,
And nothing I know can cure me,
So long as the Boys
With the Pens and Poise
Bring policies to insure me.
Collision or Damage or Falling Planes,
Explosion or Fire or Riot,
Protection from Water or Whooping Cranes:
Whatever they sell, I buy it.
And, after they’ve given their pens a pause
On auto and hearth and Bendix,
They tell me the Rupturing Plumbing clause
Won’t cover a bad appendix.
And later I toss,
Since my new Blue Cross
Will bleed me beyond endurance;
And I’ll wreck my health
Collecting the wealth
To pay for my Health Insurance.
While noting the adage that Life is cheap
Is nothing but so much jargon,
The moment my premiums get so steep,
That dying would be a bargain . . .
Some Natty Annuity Boy comes by
All suave in his sales ability
And tells me — unless I’m lucky and die —
I’ll starve when I reach senility.
Though others count sheep
Till they fall asleep
(A practice that has its small points),
At night in my bed,
I notice, instead,
I’m counting the Boys with Ballpoints.
I guess, with the papers I’ve signed and seen,
I ought to be proud as a duchess
To think that In Age I can live serene
On twenty a week and crutches . . .
Or else, like the elderly Mothers and Dads,
Embark upon late adventures
And beam at the world from insurance ads
Through gleaming, delighted dentures.
O the stream of pay
flowing in each day
The Brief-case Boys have a sieve on,
Andmaiden and wife
They’ve insured my life
Till I’ve nothing at all to live on.