by Mary Druce Emotion overcomes me as I feel your hand in mine; A hundred people line the route - or maybe 99, And every person witnessing this melancholy scene grieves To see the cortege passing by, accompanied by 'Greensleeves.' It's not a funeral dirge, but how appropriate it seems To mark the passing of the man who sold those soft ice-creams. And as the coffin passes by the launderette and chippy The mourners follow, heads held high, and led by Mrs Whippy. The Whippy children march behind, in suits of pink and white, With cone-shaped hats upon their heads. Oh, what a touching sight! No roses on your coffin as your final leave you take, But all along the side is 'DAD', spelt out in chocolate flake. They lower it on ropes until it rests within the ground And then, in silent tribute, we turn slowly, round and round. Farewell, our true and trusted friend, as heavenwards you glide. We hope the boatman lands you safely on the other side. And when you reach the pearly gates, we hope you'll be allowed To park and play a raucous hymn on some celestial cloud.
The end