The cold doesn’t bother him,
Nor the rain, the gloom, the winds.
Sometimes a raven pecks his head.
The neighborhood kids mock
How slow he moves near the fence.
We call him Zeke the Zombie,
He still votes absentee,
It’s a Tennessee
I give him Hardee’s chicken
Then laugh when he gets sick.
He favors Baby’s Breath,
Bachelor Buttons and Dear Zinnia.
My own undead compost heap-
Tax credit like an electric car,
But he still prays to zombie God.
I tried to sell him on Craigslist,
No one wanted to buy, just rent.
Oh, and old weird Bill Bolton,
The King of Englewood, claims
He is the Fresh Prince sometimes.
Don’t call Zombie Zeke out,
When I go to meet the Sisters.
I left him hungry to ward off the
Fly boys and fallow cankered girls
That live alone in the sulfur cave.
No comments:
Post a Comment