Amongst the scores of stories that my Father used to tell,
There’s one that’s quite bizarre, and I recall it very well.
An uncle of my Father who had long outlived his spouse,
Lay dying in his bedroom, in his small and poky house.

As all his loved ones stood and wept around his tiny bed,
His spirit left his body and out through the window sped.
The undertaker came next day to measure him with care
"I have say" said he "I doubt we’ll get him down the stair!"

"It would have been no worry, had he been thin and small,
But, sad to say, the poor deceased was rather fat and tall!"
My father and his cousin well knew their uncle’s height,
And how he used to stoop when going up to bed at night.

The staircase was quite narrow - and up toward the end
Where the roof descended low, it took an awkward bend.
My Father had a bright idea that made the family scowl –
"The only way to get him down is trussed up like a fowl!"

They tried to think of ways to dodge this last indignity,
But in the end, with Dad, they had to grudgingly agree!
My Father and his cousin put their hands below his back
And bent their uncle forward like heavy, well-filled sack.

Then to the sheer horror of the mourners standing round,
The body, leaning forward made an awful burping sound!
Father’s hair stood up on end, and as one man, they fled
And left their dear-departed, leaning forward in his bed!

The undertaker sent a joiner over to the house next day,
He removed the window, and they got him out that way.
My Father often told the tale his face in laughter creased
How they’d all got the wind up - including the deceased!