When tragedy came to Eleanor,
she found herself caught in the middle.
On one side her loss,
on the other, what’s more,
her lawyer presented a riddle.
Aware that this horrid executor
had fiddled around quite a little,
the widow was sure that she couldn’t ignore
the fire she faced from that griddle.
Out came the will from the drawer
as he said, with a dribble of spittle,
“My dear, it appears he’s left you quite poor.
There isn’t a cent of remittal.”
Belittled and sore, our poor Eleanor
felt all her emotions turn brittle.
This bugger was clearly an insectivore
intending to make her his vittles.
He was locking the door when Eleanor swore,
while trying to act non-committal,
“With a will, there’s a way. I’ll have to endure.
He’ll not get his way. Not a tiddle.”
So she fainted and fell to the floor.
And when he approached for a diddle,
she stung him to death . . .
When they tallied the score
the unanimous vote was “acquittal.”