There's nothing so much makes this a bright hour
and gives some meaning to the drab March days
(not to mention inspiring me unto these lays)
as seeing zombies in their fullest flower.
Surely these beings, with their horrific power
will cause us to flee screaming from the ways;
the brains are surely forfeit of he who strays
into the lairs where lurk these beings dour.
But, since this is a sonnet, not a ballad
we might wonder at what else these beings eat,
whether they like brains salted or unsalted,
whether each meal's accompanied by a green salad,
and whether zombies eat messily or are neat;
not to mention whether their drinks are malted.