Poor Harry

We’re mourning the death of poor Harry McGrew,
Who died at the age of just fifty and two.
A popular man who we’ll never forget,
His passing is tinged with a lasting regret.
He went for a walk in a breeze strong and stiff,
And ventured too close to the edge of the cliff.
The coroner told everyone that he did owe
A debt of great thanks to his teary-eyed widow,
Who had the whole inquest in fits of loud wailing,
Describing poor Harry’s last ropeless abseiling.
As he plummeted down to a horrible death,
She heard him take one last great lungful of breath.
“God bless you my dear!” he shouted in shock,
While striking a treacherous, sticky-out rock.
“It wasn’t your fault, you must not blame yourself!”
As he rolled off a narrow and down-facing shelf,
And just as he crashed to the boulders below,
She heard his last words echo up loud and slow,
“You’ve been such a loving and wonderful wife,
Please don’t stay unwed for the rest of your life!”
The death of a loved one is sorrow indeed,
But see how the mourning’s now tinctured with greed,
The itchiness caused by the terrible wait
To see if poor Harry left any estate.
Clad in black is the most lacrimonious spouse
Whose father-in-law is not long for her house.
She’s already eyed up a plumber named Roger
Who’s expressed an int’rest at being her lodger.
She’s been getting ideas from wallpaper books,
And bought a small sample to see how it looks,
And poor old Josiah may well scratch his chin –
He’ll have to move out when young Roger moves in.
And see, Jill, his daughter, breaks down in wild tears.
I don’t think she paid him a visit in years.
A house in the country with meadows and stables,
Hats made in Paris and bought for the labels.
And yes, it is true, from the day she did marry,
A card on his birthday was all for poor Harry.
Her husband’s made fortunes in peanuts and soya
And recently phoned up the family lawyer
To see, from an impartial, impersonal view
Just how much of poor Harry’s estate they’d be due.
And then there’s the son, poor old Harry’s great hope,
Who needs an abundance of powder to cope,
An image of Harry in flesh and in blood,
Who moans to the world that he’s misunderstood.
Despite all the handouts and scrapes with the law,
Poor Harry refused to show Junior the door,
But handed him thousands of euro to burn,
And never was offered a cent in return.
The lad now is silently doing his sums
And working out grams for when handout day comes.
And Harry’s big brother is sniffing around,
Attracted no doubt by the smell of a pound,
Arrived in his Merc from his farm down in Clare
(Inherited after a shotgun affair)
But though his great farmhouse lies on a large spread
There’s no space to give poor Josiah a bed.
The cousins and nephews have all come around
To pay their respects and to test out the ground.
The golf clubs, his tankards, his prize-winning trout
Have all been politely enquired about.
But the widow is bullish, she’s well on her guard
To keep all the things for which Harry worked hard.
A rumour’s been started, (they say ‘twas by Jill)
That maybe there has been a subsequent will,
And Junior’s been rifling through letters and drawers,
And offering to help with the financial chores.
And hints have been dropped about what is expected,
And how many thousands may end up rejected.
And Junior’s friend, simply known as ’The Greek’
Has called round to pay his respects twice this week.
Oh yes they will all miss poor Harry McGrew
Who died at the age of just fifty and two.