The Stalking Dead

He’s learned to wander through the day,

Gold crosses don’t drive him away,

Complexion flushed, not undead pasty,

A garlic garland? it’s rather tasty,

And yet the bad ideas which spread

From him are those should be long dead.


His followers, who now uncloak

Themselves are all the village folk,

Who once with pitchfork and with axe

And flaming torch would make attacks

And thus would thwart his base designs,

But now fill yards with trump/pence signs.


What does he live on? Not Type A—

His tipple of an earlier day—

Instead, against the undead laws,

He drinks no blood, but wild applause

And feeds each night when none can see

On cries of “Crooked Hillary!”


All threats and boasts, he’s on each slate

With coffins stashed in each red state

So that, should he not gain his ends

This time, he’ll lie among his friends

And like the other undead not

Succumb to history’s natural rot


But sleep and wait, while hearing how

Above the ground it’s okay now

To follow after his example,

Defraud and cheat and elsewise trample

On laws, declaring he is smart

And all who follow him should start


To mock the handicapped and think

That all young black men earn the clink

And likewise refugees exist

So each can be a terrorist

While women, once all brains and heart,

Are really just one body part,


Until the day he will return

Because some people always yearn

To have a vampire and they trust

This creature who should now be dust

And never know that all he’ll try

To do is trick, then drain them dry.


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