Songs of the dying echo through the vents
Ringing alarms for the hermits.
Get out, get out; it's all coming in.
All the sickly, the zombified
Boarding themselves in their rooms
To sow the zombifying sickness into every one of you.
Get out, get out; it's cold and wet and dark outside
But in your hidey-hole, sickness is growing,
Grappling stringy, sticky arms for you.
Dripping and sapping, moaning and clawing.
Get out, get out; zinc can't save you now.