One wintry night as I alone sat drinking at an inn.
A strange old man approached me and he grinned a toothless grin.
He doffed his weathered cap and he scratched his balding head.
Then sat right down beside me and in whispered tones he said,
"I’m the keeper of the graveyard, son, and I’ve a cautionary tale.
And all I ask to tell it is one single pint of ale.
It’s a tale of unspeakable ‘orror that’ll make yer blood run cold".
So I bought the old man his pint of ale and this is the tale he told.
"When the church clock strikes twelve midnight ‘neath a chill and moonless sky,
don’t tarry near the graveyard, son, but quickly ‘urry by.
For deep inside that boneyard, as the wind remorseless moans,
an eerie mist entwines itself around the old gravestones.
Its long grey wispy fingers caress the earthy mound
as rotting maggoty dead things stir some six foot under ground.
Zombies crawlin’ from their coffins seekin’ wretched birth.
Their bony clawin’ fingers breakin’ through the damp dark earth.
All around the graveyard the livin’ dead begin a-gatherin’,
‘ungry for choice human meat, their lipless mouths a-slaverin’.
Clothin’ torn and tattered hangin’ from their fleshless bones,
their shrivelled mouths wide open as they cry their hellish moans.
Squirmin’ worms and maggots plop from ear and sightless eye,
food for silent owls who watch the zombies shufflin’ by.
The scent of human drives ‘em mad and guides them on their way,
toward the graveyard gates and to the town where lives their prey.
Through the silvery eerie mist that swirls and undulates,
mindlessly they walk the path toward the graveyard gates.
So don’t tarry near the graveyard, son, that’s my advice to you,
‘cos if a zombie starts to eat you, you’ll become a zombie too!"
"Oh yeah", I scoffed, with a smirk, "if what you say is right,
why don’t you see these zombies walking through the town at night?
Surely there’d be loads of them marauding through the town.
Some eating townsfolk in the street, some shuffling up and down?"
A grunt escaped his toothless mouth as the old man raised his drink.
He slowly quaffed the ale I’d bought then gave a knowing wink.
With gnarled finger on workman’s hand he rubbed a rheumy eye,
then scratched the stubble on his chin and gave this smart reply.
"As the keeper of the graveyard, son, I’ll answer well and true.
You’ll not see zombies eatin’ folk, that I promise you!
Nor see no zombies in the town a-shufflin’ about,
‘cos I lock the graveyard gates each night so the zombies can’t get out!
