The Undertaker

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

This poem is about: 
My community


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