These Undead Dead

Hey my friend, Look over there, yonder through the myrtles, Can you see them? The living dead, Burying the dirt of a million graves, Embalming the streets with their dead screams. Oh please, grace us with a few words. No one in our family ever got buried, Without a scripture reading or a baptizing. Silently they pass by the deceased one, These undead dead. Everyday I hear them moan and wail, Everyday I see them saunter like doomed peacocks; These undead dead. “Welcome friends to this slaughter of evil. Please join me as we pray to the Unseen; Perhaps a cool cocktail for your cold mechanized souls? Oh, I do find you creatures so low and so needy, indeed! You are just statues. Just soulless heartless statues, that move, Screaming statues that squirm and writh, Like mindless snakes in a furnace. Look at me, my friends! You are not alive! Though you move and process thought, You do not exist! Though you inhale and exhale, There is no life in you. There is no sequence or spasm within you. I now pronounce all of you dead!” Hey my friend, Look over there, yonder through the mytles, Can you see them? The living dead, Burying the dirt of a million graves, Embalming the streets with their dead screams.