When autumn takes first steps in season’s stride
And summer fades like blooming gardens do,
The call goes out to zombies where we hide
To comb the countryside and cities too
Where living men and women pass their time
at work or home or in their leisure play.
We to whom the intruder death is blind
We cannot die! Our hearts still beat, we breathe
The same air and come blood-red harvest hour
We gather human crop and on them feed
our hunger, eat eyes and brain, devour
flesh of fools who join our motley number
Becoming like us––dead but not quite dead,
Bereft of loved ones, deprived of slumber,
Schooled in the age-old craft of harvest red.
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