Shall I contrast thee with a piece of meat?
Those ample breasts. That soft and supple skin.
So close to bone, your flesh looks far too sweet.
Your brain, your heart: O where will I begin!
Or shall I compare thee to cuts of steak?
A tease of strips reveals your tender loin.
Too soon, I’ll come (to fear a grave mistake).
Is it too late to calm my trembling groin?
We’re moving way too fast. Let’s take it slow.
Perhaps good things do come to those who wait.
We’ll let it stew, and let our passion grow.
Until that day, our love will marinate.
(Because he knew a taste would lead to more,
The zombie sighed and closed his fridge’s door.)