The Strain

If I fell from a rooftop
And fractured my brain;
Or was ground to a pulp
By an underground train;
Or slipped under a bus
In the cold London rain;
Or was granted asylum
For being insane;
Or was knifed in the dark
Of the night, in Brick Lane;
Or was sliced by the wings
Of a low-flying plane;
Or beaten unconscious
By truncheon or cane;
Or took a hot bath
Having opened a vein;
Or was smashed by a ball
On the end of a crane;
So that all that was left
Was a horrible stain,
Which would lie in the gutter
And run down the drain;
Or if all the above
Came again and again
Whenever the time
And whatever the pain,
I'd have nothing to lose
Now there's nothing to gain.
I love my wife Sheila
And it seems very plain
That she fancies the vicar
But there's no harm in prayin'.