with apologies to Pete
Radiation from the Archbishop of Canterbury's cell phone
Wakes Thomas Hardy Zombie from his rest.
Then eats the Archbishop's worthy brains.
Thomas Hardy Zombie shuffles out of Westminster Abbey.
He needs a men's clothier.
He needs a haberdasher.
He needs to get on the tube.
No one speaks English,
No one is actually from there,
And no one gives a fuck about you, or your stupid Wessex, either.
Thomas Hardy left his heart in Stinsford, next to Emma.
He sits on the underground train,
Unable to read the map on the opposite wall, because of the pregnant woman,
The war cripple,
And the noisy group of drunken Germans,
All standing in front of where he is seated.
Must the Germans cook everything in beer, thinks Thomas Hardy Zombie,
Even their noodles?
The thought makes his stomach turn over,
And he belches loudly.
"Pardon me," mumbles Thomas Hardy Zombie, mortified.
His elegant Victorian manners remain largely intact.
Because he is a zombie, his mind is fraught with hellish nightmares:
Worst of all, the Scots.
To settle himself, he decides to compose a love poem.
As the train clacks and jostles, the great writer considers his task, and what sentiments,
Which natural wonders,
What unforgettable bucolic setting
Should he choose?
He begins to write:
He pauses, to review.
Not exactly "A Saturday afternoon in November was approaching the time of twilight", but
It's something down on paper,
Something to tidy up and work from.
Getting off the train, Thomas Hardy Zombie forgets the recorded warning to "mind the gap",
And his leg goes straight down between the car and the platform,
Snapping off like a moldy twig.
He is stampeded over by students and smartly-dressed young businesswomen,
All of them wearing a dizzying array of greys, blacks, and charcoal.
One of them dares to wear a red scarf,
And is thundered over without regard, as well.
Thomas Hardy Zombie hops, one-legged, to the escalator.
This presents a problem, so he stops.
A group of Japanese,
Then a small pod of Indian techno-nerds
Trample him from behind.
The fragile, long-dead (and living dead) poet is ground to dust under their heels.
The President Of The Immortals had ended his sport with Thomas Hardy Zombie,
And his final work goes unfinished.
Humbly, I complete it here: