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 Earnest Fer’s Urns.
Disturbed, the mortician’s perturbed posture worsened,
And found him slumped under a rust-obscured hearse, and
Insufflating urns of embalming preserves,
Werner heard Von Berd’s words make warm turds of his nerves.
“Curse LaVern Berger, that burdensome cur,” Werner slurred
To the unfurnished parlour and whirred,
“Though that worm, Earnest Fer is far worse, rest assured.
Burn them both in an urn.” He infirmly conferred
With a gurgle that served as his terminal word,
Lurid purple, he burped, as the world slowly blurred.
Thus was that cunt Werner’s murderous urge,
Curtly curbed per the infernal Fer-Berger merge.