WILLOUGHBY'S SECRET WILDERNESS

I didn’t know old Willoughby played golf -

It’s here in his obituary: “A keen amateur golfer,

Willoughby played off a very creditable handicap of eight.”

I don’t know what that means

And frankly, I don’t want to know.

We expect an obituary to confirm what we do know

And cast it in a favourable light - after all,

There’s nothing we (or Willoughby) can do about it now.

An obituary is no place for investigative journalism –

The unburied dead deserve a moment’s grace.

Everyone knew he beat his wife, of course –

He made no secret of that. Used to do it quite openly, in fact.

I often used to see him bashing dear old Daphne about.

It wouldn’t have occurred to him to deny it

And to his credit he never did.

And we knew where Willoughby’s money came from.

“Nobody ever became wealthy by stealing people’s money” –

That’s what he said; and Willoughby was wealthy.

“Do muggers knock you down and lend you money?”

A lot of people owed Willoughby money.

A moment when nothing is unforgivable

And the great two-handed engine pauses in mid-arc,

Nothing is decided, judgment is deferred,

Things hitherto unknown are left unsaid -

But I for one am glad the golfer’s dead.

Willoughby’s Secret Wilderness

I didn’t know old Willoughby played golf.

It’s here in his obituary: Keen amateur golfer... 

Very decent handicap of eight.

I don’t know golfing terminology 

And since the game disgusts me, never will.

An obituary should tell us what we know

And cast it in a favourable light.

There will be no more golf for Willoughby 

And as far as I'm concerned there never was.

The unburied dead deserve a moment’s grace.

You don’t get rich by stealing people’s money,

Said Willoughby – and Willoughby was rich.

Do muggers knock you down and lend you money?

He very rarely had to raise a hand

And lots of people were in debt to him.

But everybody knew he beat his wife.

It was something he preferred to do in public.

Dear old Daphne suffered dreadfully,

But this obituarist ignores her pain 

In favour of a stranger who played golf.

The great two-handed engine pauses in mid-arc, 

For a moment nothing’s unforgivable;

Nothing’s decided, judgment is deferred,

Things hitherto unknown are best unsaid.

I mourn my friend. I'm glad the golfer’s dead.