By Karen R. Sanderson
Little zombie, you think you’re stylish?
Blood drippin’ down your shirt.
With your herky-jerky, lumbering lurch.
Ain’t ‘gonna get us, we’re on alert.
Little zombie, right next door,
Tearing through their chain link fencing.
Banging down the neighbor’s entry.
Your inhuman strength is oh-so frightening!
Little zombie, you’re so scary.
Are those brains, gray and mushy,
Spilled upon your dirty feet?
Don’t look now, your toes are squishing.
What yellow fangs you’re a baring.
Gaping mouth, you’re getting anxious.
Baseball bats don’t knock you down.
We’ll have to raid the gun collection.
See my boy, he’s packing heat.
He’ll use his gun to make you dead.
To his shoulder, butt stock goes,
Oh little zombie, where’s your head?
A poem contained in No Boundaries, A Collection of Poetry, by
Karen R. Sanderson. Soon to be launched.