Anagram Apocalypse

Shelf eating zombies hunt souls.

The den of the world is nigh.

I must leave, evacuate,

run desperately for my file.

 

Darkness encroaches,

I have little mite.

Thankfully, the zombies

are rubbish in daylight.

 

The inevitable must come.

What use is it to flee?

My skin crawls with fear.

Won’t somebody vase me?

 

The howling undead,

smug retools of blood.

Spreading insanity,

unleashing the flood.

 

A flood of hated,

destruction and hate.

I run shrieking and flailing

towards hells open gate.

 

I shall end this won,

die at my own hands.

Sod the wicked undead,

and their karts raving plans.

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7 responses to “Anagram Apocalypse

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