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I visit Aunt Edith around Christmas time,
And always remember her bottle of wine,
For if by some chance it should e’er slip my mind,
An angry Aunt Edith is what I would find

She grew up in Cambridge and married a don,
Who lectured in Classics at the Sorbonne
His manner was solid, sturdy and staid,
Till Aunt Edith caught his in bed with the maid.

His death being explained as a crime passionelle,
Aunt Edith was gently led down to her cell,
Where wardens and prisoners alike all agree,
She’s much better off than wandering around free,

So each Christmas time I pay my respects,
And take her a bottle of what she expects.
She says I’m her favourite nephew bar none,
Which isn’t saying much as I’m her only one.