(on The Bulletin’s death, January, 2008)

© Ron Stevens

Winner, 2009 ‘Coo-ee March Festival ─ Humorous Section’, Gilgandra NSW.

They reckon if you die without a will and testament,
that all you owned is taken by our bloated government.
Post-mortem helping to support each Canberra rogue and dill?
No way! I’ll get around today to making out my will.

I won’t bequeath a cent to Jean, my missus, interstate
somewhere and shacked-up with her latest fancy dancing mate.
What fun they see in prancing round a hall, I’ll never know.
She pestered me to join their group, to which I bellowed “No!”

I’d also knocked her back when she’d suggested having brats ─
impediments to pleasure, gnawing at your cash, like rats.
So I’ve no problems sorting out which children grab a heap
of cash, while other progeny are left to curse and weep.

I won’t be leaving anything to John, that snobbish coot,
my brother, who already has enough ill-gotten loot.
Some years ago when I proposed a used-car partnership,
he chose to go alone because I lacked ‘the nous and zip’.

His daughter Jenny might be counting how her late concern
about my health and recent visits probably will earn
her mention in my will but I can see behind her smiles.
I won’t, at this late stage, be taken in by female wiles.

So much for family but who among my friends stands out?
Club fellow-members known religiously to dodge their shout?
I won’t reward those bludgers, or my nosey neighbours here;
nor charities demanding more donations year by year.

The latest plea was from some flying doctor mob today.
That plane is theirs, now overhead, whose wheel just dropped away.
Poor maintenance must be to blame, the pilot careless too.
It’s falling fast, I won’t be hit but if it’s close, I’ll sue.

A Postscript from Jehovah: Where there’s a won’t there’s a way
of punishing this ingrate, through a diabolic play.
The missile missed by wheels that go around can come around,
rebounding off the shed, to leave him flattened, hell-fire bound.

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