Crooked Undertaker

THIS IS A FICTIONAL POEM.

I owned a funeral parlor 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.