The humans are in hiding; Phase One is now complete.
The buildings are on fire and the undead roam the streets.
But I've stumbled on an obstacle I couldn't have forseen:
An ectoplasmic child by the name of Aaron Goldstein.
His ghost isn't corporeal and cannot be infected.
All he ever talks about is how he was rejected
And kids who took his lunch money, and kids who shoved him down.
He haunts me with pretension, he haunts me with his frown.
He isn't even pleasant with my teeth inside his brain.
He speaks in rhyming couplets and it's driving me insane.
He burns my ears with stories of his mediocre life
And won't stop filling my zombie ribcage with poorly-metered strife.
You think he'd have grown past this stage by the age of forty.
Childish problems generally die when reaching puberty,
But he feeds his ghost with spotlight. It's gotten much too strong.
If you thought zombies were the undead's fiercest monsters, you were wrong.
He can't be killed. He won't shut up. I don't think I can win.
His constant pointless yammering has forced me to give in.
I cannot bear eternity. It's time for this to end.
Goodbye cruel world. Let me introduce you to my friend:
This is my woodchipper.
There are many like it,
But this one is mine.
It will not save the world from
The impending zombie takeover. I know this.
But it will take this particular zombie's future away
From a hell of clichéd poetry.
Ha! SO funny...
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