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I have been recently accused of having an unholy fascination with zombie metaphors on this blog.

This is, unquestionably, wholly untrue, and to prove it I offer you this piece of cultural doggerel. It’s really old and everything so it must be cultural. And not a metaphor in any way.

The Zombie at Number Eighty-Four’s Garden Party (with apologies to Felicia Dorothea Hemans)

The boy stood on the burning deck

Whence all but he had fled;

The barbecue a tangled wreck

Upon the flower bed.

Yet mindlessly and swayed he stood,

A crime against the norm;

A creature of mutated blood,

A proud, though putrid form.

The flames roll’d on…he would not go

Without his father’s brains

(That father, hiding fraught below

The decking’s gory stains.)

He call’d aloud…”Arrrrgghhullabhhhab

Schhhhhbllllllllggggghhhhuuunnn!”

He knew not that his father had

His Smith & Wesson gun.

“Grrrrabbbllllghhh!” again he cried

(his jaw was almost gone)

And but the booming shots replied,

As the snipers got locked on.

Upon his frame the bullets then

Pass’d through his ribs and eye

The cry goes up among the men

“He still won’t bloody die!”

And shouted he once more aloud,

“Gurrrrhnnnnihhhhghannnnk!”

(While from the kitchen raises proud

The army’s anti-tank.)

The gazebo‘s full of sandbags piled,

The troops with guns held high

All pointed at the zombie child,

(the bazooka’s standing by)

There came a burst of thunder sound…

The boy-oh! where was he?

Well, half of him’s splashed on the ground

At number eighty-three.

With head, and hands and entrails rare

Completely blown apart;

But the foulest thing which languished there

Was that still-twitching heart.

And you can read the proper version of this lovely poem here.

PS: For those of you reading who hate poetry, be assured, I only write (or bastardize) poetry when profoundly depressed, and parodies even more so. Normal service will be resumed etc.etc.

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