Songs of the dying echo through the vents

Ringing alarms for the hermits.

Get out, get out; it's all coming in.

All the sickly, the zombified

Boarding themselves in their rooms

To Breed.

To sow the zombifying sickness into every one of you.

Get out, get out; it's cold and wet and dark outside

But in your hidey-hole, sickness is growing,

Grappling stringy, sticky arms for you.

Dripping and sapping, moaning and clawing.

Get out, get out; zinc can't save you now.