wordsout by godfrey rust

The appeal

Good evening. May I speak to you
about the little you can do
to contribute towards the health
of someone who can't help themself?
I'm sorry that it's such a bore.
You've seen them many times before—
these harrowing, pathetic scenes,
the faces on your tv screens
with staring eyes and hollow cheek
from playing squash three times a week.
Their diets bring them ever closer
anorexia nervosa,
their freezers swollen and distended—
this cannot be what God intended.
Their tap-water's undrinkable:
they buy Spa by the bottleful
and suffer quite beyond endurance
the ravages of health insurance.
They lack even the will to fight
the despot ruler, appetite,
or raise the least dissenting voice
against the tyranny of choice.
Pity those who can afford
the luxury of being bored.
This is the end of the appeal.
These problems are unbearable.
Send no money. What we need
is millions less mouths to feed.
Please carry on just where you're lying.
Don't let us interrupt your dying.

Godfrey Rust 1992, godfrey@wordsout.co.uk. See here for permissions.