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Poem

Ossenburger, the business genius, 
when he graduated from college, 
he started a budget mortuary service.

Five dollars a corpse!
He was the Wal-Mart of death.
Burry ‘em, burn ‘em, float ‘em down the river, 
get ‘em by the gross like a bag-o-chicken wings.
Bodies stacked like cord wood rotting beneath an eve, 
he had a secret process for sorting, storing, and disposal.
He hoarded the cadavers like a squirrel hoards its nuts, 
buried and forgotten, 
never wondering where they’ll pop up.

Dough rolling in from all the strapped families, 
Ossenburger was the drug lord of putrefied flesh.
While puddles of fat caramelized within the soil, 
he donated excess funds to his fondly held private school.
He wrote off all his charity, 
he hoarded up the dough, 
with more babies born daily, 
he kept profits up with our death toll.
Pencey held him in architectural esteem.
For all his generosity 
they used his name 
for their new wing.

Tell us Ossenburger about your fancy car, 
how you dream of stiffs between each shift 
and Jesus ignores our prayers to say how lucky you are.

Our only bit of justice, some smidge, 
some smear of slight relief, 
is hearing Marsalla’s flatulence 
during your puffed up prep school speech.

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