Prawn Sandwiches

Prawn sandwiches, the crusts removed
In thousand-island dressing
A plastic cup of table wine
An insult to the blessing

A clot of guests all feebly joke
Or heed the clock’s dead ticking
There’s nothing said of why they’re here
Just Premiership kicking

A priest appears and guides them in
To poorly-amped plainsong
He rushes through a brief, bland speech
He says my surname wrong

And then a man, professed “best mate…
I knew him for two years…”
Claims “He didn’t care about success,
Just mates, McNab and beers”.

The guest of honour might object
But no one thought to ask it
Instead they veer elliptical
From the wood-effect, plain casket

Which bumps along the rubber belt
But causes small upset
Not to the hoped-for Tallis choir
But ‘Angels’ on cassette