The army comes in tanks and jeeps. You wave
then duck as bullets whizz close to your head.
You cheer – they mow down acres of undead.
Then learn it isn't you they've come to save.
Their bodies armoured, goggles on their eyes
You can't tell where they look, or if they smile
You sense they plan to be here for a while
They bring in trailers. Men in suits and ties
arrive by car, seem to be in command.
They catch your neighbour's children in a net
Look at them briefly. Club them. You forget
to stay down. And they shoot you out of hand.
The last thing that you hear is someone shout
'Let God sort live and undead vermin out!'