"A poem," I said
"of the living dead,
that's what they want to hear!
Of creeping drones
and outcropped bones
and necks torn ear to ear."
"Of flesh fresh torn
and fingers worn
and eyes all cold and dead.
And let's not forget
a favorite bit:
decapitated heads."
"Stopping the moans
with shotgun pwns
what isn't there to like?
And best to me,
they're easy to flee
if you happen to have a bike"
"A car, better still
though more run of the mill
makes for interesting games of chance.
Though alone at night,
I suggest you might
just want a change of pants."
For others to see
and laugh pitiously;
it was my fondest hope.
"But what," I then cried,
"if this poem's despised?"
But see, I was able to cope.
These half-dead beasts,
with their horrid feasts
upon their living prey
are never amiss
in a place like this,
so that makes it all okay.
It was harder than most,
this ghastly post;
the rhythm made it hell.
But I take some pride,
all joking aside,
as I think I did rather well.
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