Poem for George

Woke up this morning feeling kinda eerie.

Made some coffee, but there were no sounds of my cheery

mother doing chores somewhere in the backyard.

No sign of her or anyone else, just me, the family’s diehard

fan of the midnight special, so I slept late.

Little did I know it would all turn out as Fate

and when I went to check, saw something busting through the door

of the work shed, it was gross, and I could not take no more

of this crap, “Hey, cut the crap!” I called out,

thinking they were joking on my expense and laughing out loud

somewhere behind the work shed, but look!

In the fields there were many others, and all it took

for me to have one glimpse of the walking dead

before I ran and ran away from the work shed.

I ran through the house and out the door I went

and crossed the dirt road and some cars, and there was dent

because something had come over everybody

there was blood and not just on the crash site, that was bawdy.

Scared shitless now, I continued running

as I sensed from behind me a kind of moaning.

And, surely, there they were, the entire village!

Behind me, shuffling, ready to have a carnage!

“Oh, what horror, they gonna eat my brains!”

I yelled, turned around, picked some rocks, and took my best aim.

But rocks can’t stop The Living Dead,

sooner or later they’re bound to get you, and they will shred

you to little pieces, and own this town,

just like in the movies, and you will be found

days, or maybe weeks later, shuffling with them,

moaning, eating brains, no longer needing oxygen.

You’ll have no more shallow, earthly needs,

no hunger, other than a murderous greed

to take out everybody with a pulse, make them your own

or eat their flesh when the army is enough grown.

And as I was running my endless run

I got so agitated I cursed the sun

in my eye cause now I stumbled right into a Camaro

it’s a fancy car, and inside I saw George A. Romero

smiling, telling me I was dreaming,

a nightmare, sure, but wasn’t it working

beautifully, darling? These fiends from Hell

will always lurk beneath the surface of our Story-Telling Well.