no I don’t have time for you today cancer thanks
but no thanks I have thought about you enough
over the last few months to last me a whole lifetime
whatever tumour stats are pumped into the prognosis
predictor algorithms I know arbitrage is risky at my
age and the sum of my days will metastasise into death’s
fixed odds anyway but the sudden fact of your existence
raised them in your favour let’s face it midlife is a numbers
game a law of diminishing returns an unfair exchange
where you’re the banker so I can’t afford to leave it to
chance that I’ll get lucky now it’s an ante post in-play
race against time I’m not sure whether to go with the
tipsters’ favourite accumulation hare because my money’s
on the underdog tortoise hobbled by the asian handicap
of dwindling days while your spread’s already laid on the
hare so you hit a double dutch payoff each time one of my
cells divides each way you’re covered as the closing line
looms looking like the outright winner while I’m the long
shot maiden unless my last ditch martingale punt makes
me a better all out selection I’m going all in all weather in
play or not no also ran for me quids in even if I’m disqualified
for hormone therapy doping that still feels like gold to me
not a miss pink ribbon congeniality medal for good sport
survivors I’m favourite for nailed on the nose dead heat
this filly’s still got form