We speak in hushed tones of the poor

Man's departure. Why are we quiet,
Respect for the widow, who's not
Within earshot, most likely asleep?
The truth tends to suffer with somebody's
Passing, and, thus, what we whisper
Is unduly kind. The man was an asshole,
Dishonest, a crook, but now we declare
Him akin to a saint. The whitewash won't
Last very long, once he's buried.
The widow is leaving. Our voices will rise.

He'll become an asshole again.