WHENAS in thrall my Zombie goes,
Then, then, methinks, how ghastly flows
That putrefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That slow-wit shuffling each way free ;
O how her gibbering taketh me !

Shall I compare thee to the somber dead?
Thou art more mobile and more desperate.
Rough winds don't touch a coffin-buried head,
And funerals hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often cause the dead things to decay;
And every life from life sometime declines,
By chance, or since you've gnawed its limbs away.
But thy eternal moaning shall not fade
Nor lose possession of such "life" thou hast;
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal mad undeath thou last,
So long as men have brains on which to feed,
So long lurch you, in everlasting greed.

I have eaten
the brains
that were in
your skull cavity

and which
you were probably
saving
for sentience

Forgive me
they were delicious
so meaty
and so warm

    so much depends
    upon

    a red mouth
    gnawing

    glazed with brain
    drippings

    inside the white
    skinsack.

THE ZOMBIE PLAYERS.
   GNAWING ON A BLOODY ELBOW.

We real cool. We
drip drool. We

Lurch late. We
don't sate. We

moan "brains". We
eat brains. We

know dread. We
live dead.

When I was not a zombie
I heard a wise man say,
‘Use guns and flames and bullets
But keep your brains away;
Give mush away, and dog food,
But keep the humans free.’
But I was not a zombie,
No use to talk to me.

When I was not a zombie
I heard him say again,
‘They lurch out of the shadows
And then they eat your brain;
’Tis gnawed with moans a-plenty
And then enzombies you.’
And I am now a zombie,
And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.