And you hit the ground running.
Between the merlot and the winstons,
My mouth tastes like meat.
In the marshmallow time before sleep
What I have for muscle passes for frozen steak,
Not as cold but red and just about as bendy.
What gets me, if the fuckers come in
Through that window and the Snods get it
As well, sure they eat, but would they
Pick up the blog? Would all my tools rust?
It goes like this: Eeuuurgh. Aheh-aheh.
Gwarrsssssgh. Gnar gnar aroo, with
Maybe a gem like “I can feel myself rot.”
Everything else is waste, and that’s
The true crime: there's no art with zombies.
Zombies have no trade except meat,
And I hope I taste like a stack of turds by then.
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