When they come
They came in hordes
Slow but numerous
Dragging their already dead limbs
Their blood spilling on the road
They resemble what they once were
Almost like they were still alive
But they are not
They're dead
We don't kill the living
That would be like committing suicide
They are the dead that move
We do not morn them
Only scorn them
We nock one down after another
Yet there is always more
So when they come
And they will
You best be prepare