|Why I â™¥ Zombies |
They`ve let go of their pride.
They`re not vampire aristocrats
spoiled by virginal necks,
or mummies older than Christ.
They`re retired plumbers
in boxer shorts pulled snug
on beer-and-potato-chip bellies,
or housewives in dumpy nightgowns
wandering barefoot on the lawn,
hypnotized by crickets.
They`re not Frankenstein`s
monster with bolts in his neck,
or alien coneheads with 500 IQs
& rotten claw teeth.
They`re volunteer firemen
with charcoal puffy eyes
from watching Carson night after night,
or secretaries softening faces
with cold cream before bed.
They`re not bikers, hippies, or rednecks,
the stock villains of 1968,
but young men with good haircuts
& worthwhile careers,
teaching high school biology,
or managing a Chevrolet showroom.
All good citizens, they`re eager to help
a young crew from Pittsburgh
film a low-budget nightmare
at an old farmhouse. Amid spotlights
slashing the lawn, they shuffle & groan
as cameramen kneel for closeups:
gunshots to the chest, spikes to the head.
They`re thrown out & burned
like junk furniture. They have no idea
one day they`ll be famous,
terrifying us by being so ordinary.
Photo Credit: WikiMedia Commons