“So, yes, he had the common touch
But never did amount to much
and didn't take that long to burn.”
She poses with the little urn
for selfies, as is now the fashion –
the husband, ash; the widow, ashen.
“It’s time to spend that fabled mite
and check the ‘Merry Widows’ site.
He wished a burial at sea."
She rubs her hands with callous glee
and then proceeds, no more ado,
to flush his ashes down the loo . . .
The ‘Merry Widows’ site’s such fun
and hardly had her search begun
than she had snared a naive punter
who thought himself to be the hunter,
and boasted "Here's an easy lay"
when he was actually the prey.
So-called black widows come and go
but not as often as their foe,
the men who think that they can do
just what they like with women who
are always at their beck and call
until their pride precedes a fall.
