Good To Be the Undead

Licking his lips from bloody pesticide,
snickering at all of the young ones,
their bones screech while their bile-filled stomach,
bubbles.

The uncaged mad man lifts his delicate toe,
to take a step over his massive termination.
The fingers that cause outrage are cursed,
his hands are barely boned,
barely skin covered,
oh but his handsome veins do him good will.

Manipulation is his key to hunting,
reeling in flaccid females,
and naive baby boys,
"this is too good"
he announced to himself as he gulped,
and gulped the stenchy fluids of the living.

By now the day has grown old,
his undead, unlivley, devastating body,
lies in a bed of flies swarming among the deceased.
"Just an ordinary day,"
the lives are lost,
his lips, his belly, their bile and acidity was a delicacy.

The man tips his hat to a job well done,
sleeping under the rims of his cap,
dreaming of the next day of destruction.
Only he hears a weep,
rushes to the sound of life,
drags out the next soul with a swish of a blade.
"Done."