It sits, rocking backwards & forwards in a stinky piss-soaked scabby armchair in the TV lounge of The Hospice for The Incurably Sick.
Doesnt recognise anyone anymore & is so thin, its a pale shadow of its former self.
Short term memory is long gone, so its bans, forgets & then unbans again every few hours.
Those that still visit, go out of pity, a miss placed loyalty for what once was and hope that they might get a mention in the will.
Staff have placed it on the Liverpool Pathway and talk quietly in corners "its just a matter of time now"
Some still dream of an experimental miracle cure, a returned Dashing Young Prince who can awaken it with just a kiss. Or a trip to Lourdes. A prayer to St Jude.
But its best to remember the good times and let it quietly slip away during the dark hours, just before dawn.