Sir Malcolm is dead, they've screwed down the Lid,
But I've recently been thinking: Was it something I did?
For he was a Placid old thing to friends I have said;
Except for the time when he found me in Bed -
With his Luscious hot Wife who's a Hell of a flirt...
By the Sedatives needed he was a trifle bit hurt.
And when his Mother died he took it quite hard,
But lent me the Money for a Sympathy Card.
And in my defence I humbly Beg,
I got quite distracted by a shapely Leg,
And the Card he received brought on a Mad fit:
As 'Congratulations' were brightly writ.
And when I borrowed his car, a Porsche 911;
And rammed into a Tree when my drinking was done.
I said I was sorry to avoid any dispute;
Then throw-up my lunch on his Armani Suit.
His Album of Stamps were assembled with care;
All very Valuable, all very Rare.
I took them outside for a much better look;
A Gale bellowed down and emptied the Book.
And he was into his Wine, A Connoisseur in fact;
Some Centuries Old Plonk were laid in their Racks.
So I opened a few , they weren't very grand;
Then I replaced what I drank with some 'Tesco's' own Brand. And a great lover of Art, he owned a Rembrandt;
But I Coughed on the Canvas so he went on a Rant,
About an Artist Sublime, a Genius among Men-
And how 'Bathsheba at her Bath' is now covered in Phlegm.
I still owe him some money: on Six Hundred Pounds,
And his Tools that I borrowed are Rust laid around.
So I put in his Shed the Tools I did hire;
Then dropped my Cigarette and set the whole place on fire.
Together we went Hunting when down came a Fog;
I got very confused and Shot his old Dog.
He then burst into tears, took it real Rough;
Said 'Prince' was a Champion at a thing they called 'Crufts'.
And his University Daughter I feel I should say,
I piled on the Charm and Whisked her away.
After I told him 'Just Married dear Father in law';
The Paramedics gave up and couldn't do anymore.
So poor old Malcolm in life played his Part,
But events got to much and he clutched at his Heart.
And I know this is feeble and frankly quite lame:
But I still get the feeling that I was partially to blame.
-
Author:
Kevin Hulme (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: August 23rd, 2026 18:48
- Comment from author about the poem: Apparently there was a bit of a mix-up at the Crematorium. Sir Malcolm wanted to go with a little Mozart played. Our friend bought the wrong Record. And Sir Malcolm went to his Eternal Rest accompanied by 'Burn Baby Burn ' by Ash.
- Category: Humor
- Views: 9
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
Online)
Comments4
I'm glad you and he were such good friends. I have son in laws as well but made sure I told them when they came to ask for my daughters hands that if anything went amuck no one would ever find their bodies. All has gone well after that little talk. A great write and a fave
I have a image of you talking to future Son in Laws like Robert De Niro in Goodfellows.
Frightening!
Thank you for the fave. 👍
My pleasure
Oh well… it’s the ‘Sirs’ of that Sceptered Isle wot keeps the joint pointing in the right direction. He was familiar with both triumph and adversity so your minor interventions and infractions only caused him to respond in a manner we could see as self expression. You provided an essential service – you kept him on his toes.
And curled up his toes.
There was a Television Comedy called 'The Worst Week of my Life' that ran through my mind when writing. Fellow in that was the same. A disaster. Might have been shown down there.
Thank you for Reading this.
Sorry - I have enough of my own memories I'm trying to forget...
Kevin, I was already laughing throughout this escalating disaster, but that author’s note absolutely finished me! 🤣 Even the poor man’s send-off gets ruined by this walking catastrophe. Reminds me of a time at a funeral when "Here Comes Santa Claus" accidentally started playing during the casket processing in. Oops! Don't tell the kids! 🤣 Brilliant, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🐦⬛
Appreciate your Comments and Reading.
And the tale about 'Santa Clause '. 🧑🎄⚰️
This is a damn gleeful catalogue of increasingly catastrophic offenses, and the deadpan “partially to blame” at the end is perfect because there’s absolutely nothing partial about it. Every verse makes Malcolm’s demise more inevitable, until the whole poem becomes a beautifully shameless exercise in comic escalation.
Appreciate your Comments and Reading this.
Makes it all worthwhile. Thanks. 👍
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