It would have been inaccurate to label her as a convenience,
Downright unfair, in truth,
And certainly she was no matter of any port in a storm;
She fell into the category of handsome women,
And tended more to the Rubenesque than the runway.
Indeed, the odd occasions where an evening with the gang
Fragmented into a somewhat unmatched set
Were more in line with setting into a familiar harbor,
Bereft of the intoxicating hazards of shoals and sand bars, perhaps,
But familiar, comfortable, a pleasant haven
From the riptides, undertows and various entanglements of the open water.
It was an aneurysm that took her, a type of thing
We’d always associated with grandfathers, aged uncles
And various other old men who’d already played out the string.
What’s more, it turned out that she was staunchly and stubbornly Lutheran,
Regular to the point of obsession in her attendance at services
(We’d no way of knowing such a thing, of course,
As the idea of lollygagging at hers on a Sunday morning
Would be both curious and curiosity),
So we found ourselves in stiff collars and ties we hoped were suitable,
As the whole affair had us more than a bit off balance,
And we were only able to gain back our equilibrium at the end,
Just in time to attempt to bounce the pebbles onto her coffin lid
In what we hoped would be some witticism in Morse code.