or “The Widower’s Confession”
The hallowed porcelain was laid
In state on cottage cill:
Last relic of a septic ‘maid’,
Sole comfort to poor Will.
(We really need another Will,
Like Wordsworth, for this crap.)
Bold Emma in her Marigolds,
She smashed it on the tap.
“Begone, vexatious besom!” cried
The sore-tried Widower
And made to shove her out the door.
Em didn’t budge – not her!
“Such fuss about some dirty cup .
Oh Will, you’ve gone all soppy –“
“You twice-fished ditch, best button up:
T’was there to poison - Poppy!”