The Undertaker

A dark poem

　

he lives in his own world

through choice of demonic desire for power

inside he hides through reason of his own

with a dark desire for fresh bodies

alone he hides through the silence

amidst the violence

there is a great hold on his soul let the truth be told

cadavers he will hold in his crypt doen below

many are taken away to him

on a dimly lit candle the undertaker works non stop

eager to labor for the legal tender

within his dungeon of gloom

at night he hears voices with foot steps

a long duration of masked zombie creatures vacate his premises

yet he continue his work on his prized possession

Satanic laughter in the window with a shutter

feeble minded mutants running wild in the street

a whole host of circus like frenzy invades his domain

he keeps a jar next to his crypt with blood

the fangs of each zombie drip blood from each side

maggot infested embalming fluid permeates throughout

many skulls of discarded cadavers are left in his closet

still many do not know what he realy does only that he's the undertaker

one dreary evening while sleeping the undertaker arose

only to find his skull collection of gone missing

a narrow passage way was leading to his room

voices were once again to kill the undertaker

shaken yet still he returned to his work

a loud clapping noise was heard and the undertaker fell over

there on the ground were the skulls all clasped together dripping blood

a hand kept his from escaping only to encounter a blow to his head

the creatures sucked his vile extremties through & through

the undertaker was then no more