Ode to a Terminal Defeatist

I was sorry to hear that you’re “dying”,
I thought you would go on for years.
Yet halo and wings you are buying,
And angels are soon to be peers.

Now off your mortal coil you will shuffle.
Your bucket will finally be kicked.
Your drum is about to be muffled.
Your bud is about to be nipped.

Do you happen to know when you’re going?
Only you really don’t look all that ill.
It’s just, before you get where you’re going,
Be sure, put my name in your Will...