It struck me that when I worked with bereavement counsellors some of them seemed just a bit too happy in their work. I speculated on this and wrote it down. This is the result. It bears no resemblance to any indivisual person and is a generalisation of events.     

 

GRIEF VOYEUR

 

Julie was a voyeur person, a voyeur person, Julie, was she

She'd morbidly watch a train crash and fondly gaze as they cut them free

 

She ran around the country from Stockton to Hathersage

Following all the ambulances to get a view of the carnage

 

But one day I just wondered what the effort was all for

When after four years part time study she could become a counsellor

 

Then all the pain and suffering could be brought inside her door

And she could vicariously live her dreams like she'd never done before

 

So she bought a little cottage near a harbour by the sea

About a half a mile from the hospital and mortuary

 

Then she could graize on accounts of personal trajedy

Then smilingly pass a tissue and a chitty for a big fat fee

 

All the other counsellors avoided Julie like the plague

Aware of the grotesque nature of their profession she had made

 

So for thirty years or more she worked her chosen trade

And a decent amount of spondulicks in the bank is what she'd made

 

But now she's finished working, she's all retired, the job is missed

She spends all her time watching Quincy, Sixth Sense and Schindler's List