Aunty Fanny R.I.P

Oh, Auntie Fanny’s funeral day, what a sight to behold,

Thirty stone of her resting, all her stories left untold.

Little Billy gasped, “Did she have a mustache, then?”

Dad took off his cap, a swift reprimand for the boy's whim.

As the cortege rolled out, a deafening pop,

The tire burst loudly, bringing Liverpool to a stop.

What could go wrong, you might ask? Well, fate had a twist,

Her coffin descended, not gently, but in a mud-laden mist.

Ba-bang it went down, and the onlookers gasped,

Covered in muck, in disbelief, they clasped.

Thank the lord, the box was a solid wooden frame,

Each person feigned tears, all part of the same game.

Then off to the reading, the eager folk rushed,

“Let’s see what’s ours,” was the collective hush.

“To whom it may concern,” Fred cleared his throat,

“My brother Tom, here’s a fine 1920s piss pot to gloat.”

“To my little nephews, a gallstone jar awaits,

And to my husband Harry, the debts on the plates.”

An hour dragged by, with grumbles and sighs,

“What a tight old bugger!” said Mary, rolling her eyes.

Next stop, the pub, for ham butties and cheer,

They toasted to Fanny, with laughter and beer.

“Fanny, what a tight bugger you truly were,

But at least we got a day out, fresh air, and a stir.”

So raise up your glasses, let’s give her a nod,

To Auntie Fanny, though tight, she’s still loved by the lot.

A day filled with memories, both jolly and grim,

In the heart of Liverpool, her spirit won’t dim.