MY LAST HUSBAND

by Doreen Hinchliffe

That's my last husband hanging on the wall

looking as though he ruled the roost.  He's tall

and very handsome, don't you think?  His hair's

not straight but then I caught him unawares.

He hadn't put his Brylcreem on, you know,

that's why, perhaps, his bald patch tends to show.

He never liked this photo.  Made him look

too old, he said.  I found it in a book

after he died and put it up.  I bought

the frame myself.  'He can't complain,' I thought,

though, once, he was well practiced in the art.

Don't get me wrong, he had a loving heart

as all the ladies in the district knew,

especially the pretty ones, like you.

What's that you say?  You never saw me grieve?

But I don't wear my heart upon my sleeve,

my dear.  Please don't weep.  He's passed away.

I don't believe there's any more to say.

No, no pain.  He didn't suffer long.

In fact, considering he was so strong

he died quite easily.  The hand of fate

dealt him a quick and heavy blow.  A slate

it was that felled him, from the roof, they say.

I wasn't with him.  No, not far away.

The attic, dear.  Oh yes, I saw it fall

but, sadly, didn't have the wherewithal

to warn him or cry out.  I ran down fast

of course, but he'd already breathed his last.

No, since his death, I've slept, dear, like a log

knowing he's safely buried with his dog.

Enough of him, let's go downstairs and eat,

I think that you deserve a little treat.

I know you're fond of cognac, I am too,

and so I've made this specially for you -

a dark and potent brandy-based liqueur

the first of many such delights, I'm sure....