A poem for kids about zombies
It’s a tough job being dead,
having risen from the wooden case
that people called the eternal bed.
But once you’ve been to Hell and
signed the list to say you’re there,
you’re free to roam the earth again
and give the people quite a scare.
‘Cause since you’re a dead old rotting corpse,
there’s not much folks can do y’see.
They simply see you, turn and run
unless you leap from up a tree,
or pounce on them from round a corner.
That’s where the fun begins,
and where deadies dish out torture.
Here is how it goes, my friend
just to let you know:
They’ll lunge at you with clawing nails
or spit in your eyes if all else fails.
They’ll sometimes gut you then and there
unless they fancy taking care
of prey in which case they’ll say,
‘Ah’ma ghunna eatcha farw ma breykfahs lhitool girl ah bhoy’
and seamlessly proceed to feed upon your neck with joy.
But if you wish to avoid such terms
you need to know what to look for:
Their yellowy teeth and sinewy hair, and usually their skin’s tore.
They stumble around like the three blind mice,
all stupid and clumsy and slow.
They moan and groan amongst themselves
and never know which way to go.
So if you see a group of stumbling people,
with peeling scratchity skin,
take a step backwards
then run for your life.