by Nick Gisburne
The swankiest of socialites is dead
Like vultures, greedy relatives appear
The secrets of the will must soon be read
In legal chambers, splendid yet austere
A fine champagne is popped and poured and sipped
A glass for each, for these, the shameless kin
They claw and clutch the table; chairs are gripped
The sombre speaker rises to begin
They crowd like twitching mice around a cheese
Besotted by the lust for what they seek
The testament is read with practised ease
Yet none are left to listen, or to speak
“I truly hope you drank this bottle dry
Enjoy the poison, think of me, and die”
