The streets are filled with walkers.

All through the streets they roam. 

To stumble and slide in heards 

Is all that they know.

They are slow to move.

They grumble with a slur of sounds.

They reek with a potent stench,

Some of their innards fall in mounds.

The thirst for more keeps them alive.

While their intellect begins to fade.

They’re not yet dead, but will feel like it.

The next morning, as the walkers wake.

They will exclaim, “never again,”

But they will walk the next weekend.

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