I want to move to a small town.
Somewhere up in the mountains, with thin air and thinner roads.
I want to chain-smoke outside the one good restaurant in town.
I want to die alone, on my rocking chair.
It'll be cancer that took me.
But my neighbor, the coroner, will never know.

I don't want anyone to find my body.
I want my cats and dogs to eat me.
Then, knock down the creaky front door
to go looking for blood.
My babies,
My babies are zombies.
They have a taste for human flesh.

The hospital was put on lockdown.
State troopers had to be called in.
In the end, their lead bullets were futile.
My babies each got a few pounds
of marrow and meat.
Now, it's a ghost town.
I feel guilty.
I didn't mean to take everybody out with me.