Some of them run at you – you must be fast
to hope to get away. And some are slow.
The key to your survival is to know
which ones are which. There was a time, now past,
when they all shambled, all stank of the grave
that they'd left recently. And they were made
by hand, by craftsmen. You were still afraid.
But they were tame, somebody's household slave
The quick wild ones are feral, a disease
that you'll catch if they catch you. Yet they treat
the old slow kind politely if they meet.
Offer them bits of people. On their knees.
The dead are snobs. The stench of long decay
outranks the slick young beast who rose today.