"My uncle, matchless moral model,
When deathly ill, learned how to make
His friends respect him, bow and coddle --
Of all his ploys, that takes the cake.
To others, this might teach a lesson;
But Lord above, I'd feel such stress in
Having to sit there night and day,
Daring not once to step away.
Plus, I'd say, it's hypocritical
To keep the half-dead's spirits bright,
To plump his pillows till tehy're right,
Fetch his pills with tears veridical --
Yet in secret to wish and sigh,
'Hurry, dear Uncle, up and die!'"