The moon comes up and shines so bright
Upon the stones, so cold and still,
that stand to mark a persons life.

Beneath the stones, the cold remains
begin to shift and squirm about
And claw their way to the surface again.

six billion people of the living above
is only a portion of what lay below
And now they walk again, rotting flesh and bone.

So grab a knife, and load your gun
and pray they pass you by tonight,
Unless you think the undead are fun!