THE ROOMMATE

Her corpse hath risen from the dead

The grave’s no place to lie her head

She came to live with me instead

 

She slumbers in her morning lace

Then through the night, the grounds she’ll pace

So I wear garlic just in case

 

Her skin is rotting off, I swear

Can see the flakes throughout her hair

I hope she keeps it in her lair

 

Her decomposing-carcass-scent

Comes wafting down the hallway vent

I guess, at least, she’s paying rent

 

© All Rights Reserved Caroline Adele O’Brien

 

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