Bill Shakesfear: A Zombie Rockopera

Just lend him your ear (he won’t take a bite);
I’d like to ask you to please read his work.
His poetry’s penned by soft candlelight—
yet, wild Bill Shakesfear's a bit of a jerk.

 
Rancid and rotten, he’s foul to the core,
 heart’s diseased tissue; his brain’s all but mush.
As corpses shadows soon skirt ‘cross your floor
moans from the grave fill your ears in a hush.

 
Antediluvian, decrepit soul;
poems he posts just to stay relevant.
We wish he’d shut up, but this much I know,
he could care less just how much we might vent.

 
Maggots soon feast on his green, molded flesh—
his foul, putrid poems still stink, like the rest.