Zombie Sonnet

Undead, the hand that grasps the throat in rage,

As stumbleth he, who hungers for his prey:

He walks as slow as death that comes with age;

Hi skin arippling, it is ashen grey.

A rotting corpse made live by blackest arts,

He wanders forth with sense for late night meal:

He rips and tears apart the body parts;

Fresh skin, he taketh his next life to steal.

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But 'gainst the moan there comes a dfferent roar!

His prey lets forth a scream of pain this night,

Just 'fore the shotgun rips and tames his gore;

Disease he carries gives the stick no fright.

Beware the Zombie presence in the air;

They'll come for you, if you do not prepare.