Obituary – a Poem by H. McFaddean Spume
No one knows why,
But his shits were huge.
They disappeared around the bend,
And left a perky brown iceberg above the water line.
Hotels dreaded his residence,
All too often, his huge turds
Blocked their entire system.
Plumbers adored him.
As a nose-picker, he was second to none;
A skill he was happy to share
On buses and trains, in lifts, in libraries, and once, memorably,
At a dinner seated next to Dame Ninette de Valois.
DNA testing has revealed
His snot smeared on countless sofas,
Dried like runnels of brown candle wax.
He was a god to steam cleaners.
As a masturbator, his output was prodigious.
His students regarded the endless fiddling
With his generative organs
During lectures and seminars
As largely endearing,
Although, at the moment of crisis,
He was given to shouting his own name aloud.
Kleenex shares have dropped seventy points
Since the sad announcement of his death.
It is very seldom that Spume is moved these days to write a poem, but he e-mailed today to tell me that whilst dropping the kids off at the pool this morning, he was so impressed by the magnitude of his Thora, that it occured to him that this was the kind of personal detail that biographers might sadly overlook, and that this omission might make an ideal subject for a little vers libre. As ever, I am happy to publish anything by that great and good man.