Early Thursday, at Werner Bjoern’s funeral parlor,
An irksome occurrence had spurred his alarm, for
He’d heard, as it were, from Herr Bertram Von Berd,
(Of Big Bert Von Berd’s Morgue, up on Sherman & 3rd)
Who had learned Laverne Berger (of Urns By Lavern),
Planned a merger that merged her with Ernest Ferr’s Urns.
“I abhor both those burdensome, urn-merging curs!’”
Werner swore as he spurned his accursed saboteurs,
‘Round his parlor he circled in fervent concern,
And preferred that they’d merge in his furnace and burn.
Worry wore upon Werner, who wearily worsened,
Securing himself in the trunk of his hearse, and
Submersing his scarf in embalming preserves,
Werner whirred as the fumes made warm turds of his nerves,
Huffing firmly, he burped as the world slowly blurred,
Turning purple, he gurgled and no longer stirred.
Thereupon was that worm Werner’s murderous urge,
Curtly curbed per the infernal Ferr-Berger merge,
Surely, further affirming the proverb which goes:
“Discomposure determines we all decompose.”