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Rated: E · Poetry · Comedy · #2082998
An encounter with zombies by the lake.

On a hot August night, starlight glinting the roof,
and with eyelids like tissue since sleep was aloof,
I went outside to bask in the summery balm
feeling like an insomniac, though I was calm.

I decided to walk in my state of awake
so I strolled through the yard and made straight for the lake.
(I have always enjoyed spending time by its shore;
  it was part of my boyhood to swim, fish and more.)

As I stood near the edge where the rhythmic waves tap,
I was startled when I heard the sound of wood snap.
Thus I gazed to the left and could see by moonlight
a throng coming at me with odd faces of white.

All their movements were labored like pain had begun,
and they acted like posture was something to shun.
In my mind I said, “Zombies,” yet part of me balked
but I was pretty sure by the way that they walked.

I at once gathered all of my God-given sense
making tracks through the field to the gate in my fence.
And the zombies en masse followed me as if drawn
like it was their agenda to have me ‘fore dawn.

When I got to the fence it was zombie-flee fate
that I snagged my jeans' cuff on the edge of the gate.
It was one of those things that I always had feared
and my fear rose like steam as the zombie throng neared.

Yet as I struggled madly among Levis’ rip,
there came these gentle words from the first zombie lip:
“You are having some trouble--it is clear to me,
so allow me, good sir, to help you become free.”

Like a dexterous zombie who knew of his stuff,
he reached down and released me--that offending cuff.
And the rest of the zombies, right after a pause,
filled the wee of the morn with a round of applause.

Though the sun was not far from announcing new day,
(and I was glad to be free and be on my way),
I extended a thank you as zombies edged near
while the one who had freed me whispered in my ear:

“We are well-mannered zombies who wish to survive,
  and we all are ecstatic you seem so alive.”
“Yet we have a request, please don’t think it insane:
  If it’s not too much trouble, may we eat your brain?”

40 Lines 
Anapestic Tetrameter
Writer’s Cramp Winner
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