An epitaph

The Queen of Puddings...

Irene devoured the bowl of prunes,
Irene swallowed them whole.
Enough to feed the eight of us,
Irene wolfed them all.
Skin and flesh and stones within,
Irene gulped the lot.
Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor,
Hit Irene's hungry spot.
The champion of the dinner hour,
With a spoon a paragon.
Irene became less popular,
As the afternoon dragged on.