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‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the land,
Not a creature was living, only the damned;
The stockings were hung by the chimney to dry,
In hopes that tomorrow the few survivors wouldn’t die;

The living were bunkered down snug in their holes,
While sounds of the dead accompanied the cold;
And mamma in her bulletproof vest, and I in my flak,
had just settled down for a short, restless nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my hole to see what was the matter.
Away to the .50 cal I flew like a flash,
Tore open the ammo box and uncovered the extra ammo stash.

The sight of those beasts marching in the new fallen snow
Gave the lustre of death to the objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, being pulled by undead reindeer,

With a little old driver, so dead and pale,
I knew in a moment this must be Hell.
More rabid than dogs his coursers they came,
And he moaned, and groaned, and I thought he called my name;

“Come now Justin, the dead await!
No man can fight this zombie fate!
Fire your guns, retreat if you will!
We are undead and can’t be killed!”

As burning ashes that after the napalm fly,
Those zombies met obstacles but continued nigh,
After emptying the .50, to the roof we dashed
For fear that soon our flesh they would mash.

And then, in horror, I heard up above,
The prancing and pawing of the undead thugs,
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Something smelling of death tackled me to the ground.

He was dressed all in bloodied fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with burns, blood and soot;
A bundle of bullets pockmarked his back,
And he looked like he was going to make me a snack!

His eyes – how they were so empty! His face so bloody!
Half his face was missing,  his arms were all muddy!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a saw,
And he scratched at my chin with his sharp fingers like claws;

The stump of a tongue he held in his teeth,
The smell of stale blood encircled his head, it wreaked.
He had a broad face and holes in his belly,
That oozed, when he hissed like oily black jelly.

He was gangly, and gruesome, a right jolly old zed,
And I laughed when I saw him, brains ejecting from his head.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
One of my companions had shot this s-o-b dead.

His zombie friends spoke not a word, but went straight to work,
Climbing and clamboring, shaking with jerks.
They reached out their fingers trying to grasp our clothes,
We continued to fire on them from above, but they rose;

They sprang up to our perch, I let out a whistle,
Off the roof we survivors jumped, and landed on some thistle.
As I detonated the remote C4 we’d planted in the building out of sight,
We ran for our lives, watching the zombies burn all night.

Good luck to you all – and to all sleep tight.