We sacrifice our profits to our art
on altars made by voodoo poet-priests.
Our zombie hordes, our words alive, will start
to shamble towards the cityscapes to feast
on brains untried by literature's blood.
The beating metrics, the verse hordes lurching,
an overwhelming, never ending flood
that in its hunger is darkly searching.
We resurrect the language culture killed
by dumbing down our informative prose.
So we, the poet-priests in secret guild,
let slip the zombie-songs that no one knows
to kill the ignorance breeding inside
our population. Don't run, and don't hide.
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