Upon the rising of the harvest moon,
On the darkest nights where the wind chill kills,
And the sight of the man in the moon,
Is enough to scare a small child,
They spring from the graves.
The long-gone desceased,
And the fresh that join them,
Flesh decayed to show their hollow bones,
And their thin and pathetic muscles,
Next to their rotting teeth and partial eyes.
Rising slowly and moving weakly,
Attacking the first living thing in sight,
Feasting on its body,
Walking away when their job is done,
And wait for it to join their growing horde.
Stopping the traffic for a scream,
Jumping humans as they flee,
Feasting on their throats,
Moving their way down,
To their intestients and other vitals.
Amassing a horde of thousands strong,
From one simple town alone,
They all march onward,
To the big city,
Where civilization is always thriving with fresh life...
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