Posted in Gruesome poems

Apocalypse Blues



The sky rains blood

The Mississippi runs dry

Memphis is a dead town

Not one squeak, peep, or cry


The sky rains red

Zombies stagger down Beale

Humans lay gutted in the street

On their skins, the unholy start to peel


The sky is crying

The wind is weeping

Greasy entrails are flying

As the corpses start eating


There is nothing like an apocalypse

To silence the music on Beale

Because it is sort of hard to sing the blues

When you are a zombie’s tender meal.





By A Snyder


Just someone who likes good music, beer, poetry and books. I work as a third shift manager at a domestic violence shelter. I like cats. I like comedy. Love to laugh and be outrageous.

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