Published on the P.U.N.Y and the groaners listserv, this tender tale is by the incomparable punster Gary Hallock.

An ugly old minister, Hume
Too many dark peas did consume
     It killed him, that’s shown
     That’s why he’s now known
As preacher from the black legume

One night under bloody full moon
The time of the month made for woo’in
     Hume went on the prowl
     And heard his ghoul howl
And knew he cadaver real soon

Hume asked her “Would you like to dance?
I’ll help you get out of your pants?”
     “I’d not be caught dead
     With you in my bed
You haven’t a ghost of a chance”

She cried with a howl of great sorrow
Which chilled poor Hume’s bones to the marrow
     She doesn’t let men
     Get under her skin
For they won’t re-spectre tomorrow

Still she and her dance partner Hume
Waltzed all through the night I presume
     She said as she tripped
     Across creepy crypt,
“Oh listen, they’re playing our tomb”