The Living Dead
Here they come, their forearms flailing,
Eyeballs starting from their pits,
Slowly groaning, softly wailing,
Suffering from fifty fits.
Some have brains, but they malfunction;
Some have got no brains at all;
Some will kill without compunction;
Some are due an overhaul.
Some are made of ancient money,
Some are made of shire stock,
All have gone a wee bit funny,
All have gone off at half-cock.
Lumbering from here to nowhere,
Stabbing pals, and in their backs,
Some wear tweeds and some wear mohair,
Most of them are dodging tax.
Here they come, their palates drooling,
Zombie eyes, and hearts of jet.
Who is it they think they’re fooling?
Welcome to The Cabinet.
Click here for The Guardian obituary.
