Unliving flesh, unblinking stare,
Making skin crawl and standing up hair.
Mindless moan from rotting lip;
Jagged nails to claw and rip
Staggering lurch as rigor mortis sets in;
Horrified shrieks of family and kin
As they recognize those buried, risen once more
To feed on raw flesh and wallow in gore.
The restless dead lie uneasy, they often had heard,
And chuckled at each imaginiative word.
Until the bell tolled their own judgement hour,
And there was no place to hide, nowhere to cower.
When there is no room in hell, the dead will walk.
Nothing shall stop them, neither deter nor balk.
Like festering sores they will burst from their grave;
Vanguard of horror, death's willing slave.
So enjoy what little time you have left,
Ere your race is ended, your life is cleft.
I wonder, when next I see you again,
Will you be living or walking dead men?
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