Buried by the Competition

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 with fervent concern,
And preferred that they’d merge in his furnace and burn.

Worry wore upon Werner, who wearily worsened,
Forlorn, he slunk into the trunk of his hearse, and
Endeavoring dispersal of querulous nerves,
He submersed his kerchief in embalming preserves,
Huffing firmly, he burped as the blurring world whirred,
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.”




The Ballad Of Guffins The Gallant

Of the joust, proclaimed Gallant Sir Guffins,

“With each vict’ry, my fortitude toughens!”

In his cups, though, he’d say,

Where his heart truly lay,

Was in farting upon English muffins.

And as errant air blared from his fanny,

Bid the Knight (with no absence of canny)

To his squire “Egad!

Henceforth, butter these, lad,

Ere ye nooketh them into mine cranny!”


Night Of The Loving Dead

“It’s over” she croaked, choking back sallow tears,

To her lover, aquiver with dread,

“Your perversions have worsened, affirming my fears,

I’ll enable you no further, Ned.”

Brushing her cheek with his clammy, grey hands,

Gently stroking her dull, thinning hair,

Which promptly fell out into wet, moldered strands,

As his eyes met her cold, lifeless stare.

“Since last spring, when I killed you, increasingly clear

Has the answer become, sweet Amelia,

For, now that I, too, am dead, technically, dear,

It appears we’ve cured my necrophilia.”

When they kissed, his thin lips fell off into her teeth,

And her jawbone dislodged from her head,

But ’twas plain as the maggots a-wriggling beneath,

Long their love would live on — though undead.

The Pigeon Shit Predicament


As Pierre mixed the rat poison into the rice,

His thin lips formed a hideous grin,

“Those pestiferous pigeons will soon pay the price,”

Laughed he over his toxic concoction.


But uncooked was the rice, when the pigeons chowed down,

So not a one got very far,

And rather than shit,  to his horror he found,

Chunks of bird guts bespeckled his car.


Handy Hector Heinrich

Hector Heinrich had once been right-handed,

Until around mid ’98,

When the digital porn scene demanded,

He approach things a much different way.

At the juggling act, the man proved himself deft,

It was plain to see how randy Hector was.

When he clicked with his right and he pumped with his left,

Hector found he was quite ambidextrous.

“Danke schön, Internet,” Hector breathed in,

As he nibbled on bratwurst and crackers,

“For transforming generations of right-handed men

Into versatile left-handed whackers.”