There once was a man named Undertaker,
Measured, he did, bodies to fill boxes.
Had all their bodies measured in advance—
Living they were—hadn’t died of poxes.
They all paid upfront,
For this man’s affront.
He counted them dead,
And filled them with dread.
For each night that Undertaker could come.
And if on such a night that old man came
To your own home to measure your body—
Once the evil operation was done—
His ravens would peck and disembody.
They’d gore out your eyes,
An awful demise.
Sent your soul to hell
As he snatched your shell
On that night that Undertaker did come.
The flesh removed from victims’ dead bodies,
He would tan them and use them for sofas,
Love seats, carpets and, yes, even some shades
With all sorts of prints such as King Cobras.™
Boil their bones for stew,
Drink their blood as brew.
Roast their sweet red meat,
His own grotesque treat.
Each night that the Undertaker did come.
One night the old man came into my house,
He came to collect what he felt was due;
But the chilled air made his body shudder—
He there collapsed as if he were run through.
Little did he know,
Death this night would show—
My features displayed
Left the old man splayed.
That last night the Undertaker did come.
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
First published on tristanrobertlange.com, November 9, 2026.
Tittu
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Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Offline) - Published: November 9th, 2026 09:53
- Comment from author about the poem: For Macabre Monday, Orchi's favorite day outside of Spinach Sunday. A Ghostly Gallop. Part of the Darklings collection.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 1
- In collections: Darklings.
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