I never fret about the ferry;
I know my berth is booked ahead;
it certainly won't go without me,
waiting till I'm dead.

The voyage itself won't be too taxing
(the river Styx is not so wide);
a boat ride could be quite relaxing -
no threat the other side.

It's more the journey to the harbour
before I even reach the boat
depresses me as I get older
and life becomes just rote.

As muscles tire and bones grow weaker,
the transport system gets so frail
and people's outlook sure seems bleaker
when lights begin to fail.

The traffic then could cause disaster;
the road ahead is all downhill;
no wonder time starts going faster
so much of it to kill.

No problem with the route to follow -
prescriptions point the varied turns;
obsessed with illness I can wallow
in petty self-concerns.

No holdups threaten onward progress
though motorways may take their toll;
less chance of bed and hearty breakfast
for this convicted soul.

No holiday accomodation
required; no frolics at the port;
no postcards from that destination,
the journey's last resort.

Perhaps I ought to change my vehicle
for something more appropriate -
a wheelchair might make me more cheerful
once death is definite.

Or they might build a channel tunnel
to speed up progress with a train
or even fund an airport - one'll
get there quicker with a plane.