This is a fictional poem.


Crooked Undertaker

I owned a funeral home and I earned a lot of bread.
I got paid a whole lot of money to cremate the dead.
Each cadaver that I got rid of earned me five hundred grand.
I cremated murder victims and for years I was in high demand.
OJ wanted to hire me.
But he didn't like the million dollar fee.
I always got repeat business from the Mob.
I fried those corpses when I turned the knob.
You'd better believe that when I cremated a body, it was much hotter than a sauna.
I'm extremely surprised that nobody ever wound up hiring me to cremate Madonna.
When I got through burning a corpse, there was never even a trace of evidence.
But the Police broke down my door as I was frying somebody and it was intense.
After being sentenced to fifty years in prison, people nicknamed me 'The Baker'.
If you need to get rid of a corpse, you'll have to call another crooked undertaker.




Poetry by Randy Johnson
Read 219 times
Written on 2015-05-06 at 21:24

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Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
Very clever.
2015-05-08



Witty:)
2015-05-06