A man I know just died.
He was eighty-seven. 

At his house we talked about him.

He loved to laugh
And told good jokes.
He laughed and danced with women
And had a wife
Whose dark beauty was renowned.
What a pair they made
When they danced the tango!
“Where did you learn to dance?” he’s asked.
“From life and death,” he smiles
And gives a wink.
 

He loved a drink
To get things started.
He loved to kibitz
And to fool around.
He gave to charity
With an open hand.
He loved life
And lived it to the fullest.
He sucked the marrow from the bone.
.
“He was a ‘chazer’,”
Says my friend,
“A man with appetites
That sometimes went too far.”
 

“Why do you say that?” I ask.
 

“He squeezed my ass!” says she.
“He had his wife wear tight white shirts
And tight black pants
And asked the bank manager to tea
Just to get a loan.
I heard he cheated on her too.”
 

“But his wife told me that he’s a saint..”
“A saint in sin!” says she.
 

So what was he after all?
There’s many ways of looking
At the roundest stone.
But for me, the truest is:
“He sucked life’s marrow from the bone.”
I’ll miss him.