Second Thoughts At Suicide Park

One week before Christmas, Tuesday, three thirty five. A man stopped for directions, He looked barely alive. He asked at a fire station, How far to Suicide Park? The aim of his destination, Before it got too dark. Just four miles straight ahead, A helpful fire officer replied. Thanks, that's all, he said, So sad and teary eyed. A rope that journeyed with him, He carried so tightly clasped. His hope was low and dim, Then pleaded till it rasped. On arriving at Suicide Park, He selected the tallest tree. His emotions naked and stark, What the hell's wrong with me. He angrily tossed away the rope, And quickly returned to his abode. Kissing deeply his wife called Hope, With such love, it'll never erode.