Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...


Brian Roberts

Last Train To Where?


At the end of the day, I know what’s best

I’m here on Earth like the rest I’m a guest

So I’m getting off now, I’ve about had my fill

But I’ve had no time to write out my will.


I’ve picked a train it’s so quick and fast

But for the poor old driver I feel really last

It was not his fault so he shouldn’t feel sad

About some sick bastard who was probably mad.


I loved my kids and especially my wife

But I had a calling, had to end my life

I got pissed off, my family weren’t to blame

But no doctors listened, they’re all the same.


I told them I’d do it, they did not believe

So at the end of the day they really can’t grieve

I didn’t feel pain it was over so quick

I’d not been cured, I was still rather sick.


I was discharged too early I tried to explain

Because they did not know what was going on in my brain

Why didn’t they listen?  Why didn’t they care?

To find someone helpful was remarkably rare!


Don’t weep for me, I’m free at last

No worries, no cares, no future, no past

Don’t have no ticket, don’t have no fare

I’ve just lay on the track of the last train to where?




To read a poem by Brian's daughter; click here.




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