As a nation we stagger about and swagger around.
Content to be part of the crowd.
Our work defines us, you can see by the sweat on our brow.
The bulk of us, we’re computer monkeys.
A cult plugged to our PCs, caffeine junkies.
Then, when released for a brief two days a week we find our feet.
Shuffling slowly at first, our movements broad.
Head to the shops on Saturday to witness first-hand this zombie horde.
Eyes glazed in a daze, dazzled by brightness like rats in a maze.
Neon lights and sales we crave.
Gambling, slot machines, drink, drugs and entertainment.
Once we’re out though there’s no chance at containment.
This zombie nation’s breaking loose.
Causing chaos ain’t no homework excuse.
And as one the horde moves slow.
To look at us we’re an aberration but with nowhere to go.
Seeking deviation from the norm the path we tread well worn.
But it’s fair to say we feel low.
You want to save us?
A noble gesture, but one bereft of good intention.
And as a critical mass you lack invention.
Forming a plan is beyond your comprehension.
So there you stand agape, frozen in a state of suspension.
Like Kryptonians trapped in another dimension.
Unable to steer our fate for fear of reprehension.
But you’ve got to try.
These days, vitality and invention is in short supply.
And whilst you may stand around and ask yourselves why, deep down you know.
It’s a steep mountain ahead but by God you should give it a go.
So wish us luck, this zombie horde.
Least now you understand us.
Finally, we have an accord.