We never thought our Uncle tragic
In the way of Maiden Aunts
He told us jokes and did his magic
And even did this funny dance
That pissed off his sister, our now departed mum
Where he waggled like a wally and played percussion on his bum 

And it was funny then, he just was like us 
Not creepy or suspicious
Having fun without adult fuss
At worst the guy was repetitious
But so were we: “Again! Again!” nephews and nieces shriek
And off he’d go - a cliche but he’d say “Ithanyoo - I’m ‘ere all week”.

So we never thought our Uncle tragic
Until we saw his flat
And recognised an emptiness 
From the lack of those begat 
My first visit, when at uni, while touring with the team,
On the fly I dropped by and the silence was obscene

And I don’t know if by noticing
I made him see it too
But when my sister found the time
Her’s was quite the coup - 
He took her to a club he claimed he’d found but clearly never been to
And he didn’t do his dance then, as chaps in chaps were seen to. 

So from then on, up to the flat
Is where we’d most often meet
To make small talk, then make a break
For the quiet pub down the street.
The few folk there all knew him and had never seen his funny dance
Had never seen inside his flat, 
    Had never seen him share a drink 
        Had never seen him take a chance.