The Feast

The dead are knocking at our door
They want to come to dinner
Some young and fine, at once divine
Some grizzled, grinning sinners

They cry for roasted chickens
Tender, juicy, brown
Potatoes, pies and pork chops
They aren’t backing down

We begin to feel quite sorry
For these things we just called beasts
They once were human just like us
Why not an undead feast?

We greet them all with open arms —
But by then it is too late
For no roast chicken can compare
To fresh brain on a plate

By: Allison Gems