Zealous Zombie, in His Black Crombie,

Deadhead Extraordinaire.

It’s no secret why he has an empty stare.

His brains are gone. His skull is hollow.

He is the secret to Sleepy Hollow.

Riding through the night,

Burning in the bare moonlight.

His phantom rage, it will, I promise,

Truly scare.

Go and tweak his nose.

It’s you, I dare.

Your mind will close,

Your body, all of a sudden,

Without clothes.

All stuffed, now, in a dirty lair,

A dirty den,

It is not Zen. You are lost,

There is a hefty cost,

To your tweaking of his bony nose.

Blood, it grows, out of your toes,

Ever since you pinched the source

Of all his blows.

Now, in the dead of night,

Hear the crows. Hear them shriek.

Your bones too, now they will creak.

Your blood will leak out from your pores,

Your brain will become infested by boils,

And sores, your friends will recoil,

Damp wet soil, awaits, awaits, awaits.

The deathly rants of all the cousins,

Of all the Tates, the Zealous Zombie,

His image framed and stuck upon the wall,

Of the Temple Tate itself, down there

On the South Bank, where the Real Zealous Zombie,

Hides, among the tramps and the skateboard boys,

With his canvas bag of Retro Toys, and books

That do not shake out all their words,

He is there, amongst all the stray dog turds,

The whisperings of the migrant Kurds living in tent city,

Beneath the bridge, He is the master of the shadows,

The red glows in his eyes, the skanky flesh of his shredded thighs,

All his Zombie lies, his promises, not to eat you,

Not to infect you, or burn you, or cause your skin

To scab and bleed,

He is your friend, your friend indeed.

Your friend in need.

A zombie friend with weed,

Is a friend indeed.

Zealous Zombie, in His Black Crombie,

Deadhead Extraordinaire.

It’s no secret why he has an empty stare.

His brains are gone. His skull is hollow.

He is the secret to Sleepy Hollow.

Riding through the night,

Burning in the bare moonlight.

His phantom rage, it will, I promise,

Truly scare.

Go and tweak his nose.

It’s you, I dare.

Your mind will close,

Your body, all of a sudden,

Without clothes.

All stuffed, now, in a dirty lair,

A dirty den,

It is not Zen. You are lost,

There is a hefty cost,

To your tweaking of his bony nose.

Blood, it grows, out of your toes,

Ever since you pinched the source

Of all his blows.

Now, in the dead of night,

Hear the crows. Hear them shriek.

Your bones too, now they will creak.

Your blood will leak out from your pores,

Your brain will become infested by boils,

And sores, your friends will recoil,

Damp wet soil, awaits, awaits, awaits.

The deathly rants of all the cousins,

Of all the Tates, the Zealous Zombie,

His image framed and stuck upon the wall,

Of the Temple Tate itself, down there

On the South Bank, where the Real Zealous Zombie,

Hides, among the tramps and the skateboard boys,

With his canvas bag of Retro Toys, and books

That do not shake out all their words,

He is there, amongst all the stray dog turds,

The whisperings of the migrant Kurds living in tent city,

Beneath the bridge, He is the master of the shadows,

The red glows in his eyes, the skanky flesh of his shredded thighs,

All his Zombie lies, his promises, not to eat you,

Not to infect you, or burn you, or cause your skin

To scab and bleed,

He is your friend, your friend indeed.

Your friend in need.

A zombie friend with weed,

Is a friend indeed.