Early Thursday, at Werner Bjoern’s funeral parlour,
An irksome occurrence had spurred his alarm, for
He’d learned, as it were, from Herr Bertram Von Berd,
(Of Big Bert Von Berd’s Morgue, up on Sherman & 3rd)
Who had heard Laverne Berger (of Urns By Lavern),
Planned a merger that merged her with Ernest Fer’s Urns.
“Ernest Fer is a burdensome worm,” Werner whirred,
As he circled his unfurnished parlour, bestirred,
“Though that cur Lavern Berger’s far worse, rest assured,
In my furnace, they’ll burn,” the mortician conferred.
Worry wore upon Werner, who wearily worsened,
And found him secured ‘neath a rust-obscured hearse, and
Insufflating urns of embalming preserves,
Werner heard Von Berd’s words make warm turds of his nerves,
Purpling luridly, gurgling, the world slowly blurred,
O’er the burp that would serve as his terminal word.
Thereupon was that cunt Werner’s murderous urge,
Curtly curbed per the infernal Fer-Berger merge,
Surely, further affirming: the old saying goes,
“Discomposure determines we all decompose.”