A Mortician's Ballad

As women, men and children sleep through the night,

I do something that would give most a fright.

For I am your neighborhood mortician,

Meister of the blade; A post-mortem magician.

Silence, solitude, the very name of my profession,

So my methods of courting are ones of discretion.

Dead women are my canvas, ground zero, my peacful forge.

Though once they're mine, I tend to gorge.

The art of smooth talking is not part of my persuasion,

Because such is not needed in my biological equation,

See they're dead, eliminating foreplay and easing evisceration,

But they won't feel agony, despair or elation,

Which makes them perfect canvases for my demented creation.

My paint comes from where I next incise,

Hues of red akin to cheeks of blushing brides,

The subjects of mine are not what you'd call pristine,

Though they make a good meal from head to spleen.

My routine starts with a bash to the head,

But It will not hurt, for she is already dead.

Once her skull's open I begin to devour,

Ushering in part one of a quite interesting hour.

My scalpel cuts now, a little further down,

And I gather that you're already starting to frown.

Tonsils, nerves, trachea and throat.

"What a beautiful sight," I gloat.

Her brains were naught but my appetizer,

Now it's time for me to use my handy incisor.

Her heart is exposed to me, not beating yet still red,

Not finishing this delicacy is the only thing I dread.

I cut it up, but eat it raw,

Thank god it's not donated or I'd have to wait for it to thaw!

Intestines my second course, writhing like noodles,

They're oh so delectable, I eat them in oodles.

Alas, the conlusion, dessert ,el fin part trois,

I chew on her kidneys whilst bisecting her with my saw.

Going to her g-spot, now starts the real fun.

Skirt on the floor, her flesh patch cold and taut,

I start to wonder, without a second's doubt.

Without any sources of diversion, I start my steady insertion,

My fantasy come to life, my source of cold, lifless perversion.

I thrust harder in and out, maggots crawling at the seam,

Indulging in her anus, my sweet somatomic dream.

Brown sludge runs down, smooth and smelling,

I am all but euphoric in my twisted little dwelling.

I sop it up and groan, doing everything to savor,

That sickly sweet exotic flavor.

She rots of death and feels of paste,

But her flesh and organs and bodily waste,

Provides a unique, acquired exotic taste.

So ends a day of my life's quaint occupation,

Writing symphonies with flesh, skin, organs and defacation.

To coupled men, you'll soon be deprived,

As my next exploit will be taking your breathing women and making them barley alive.