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*Robert Frost’s poetic brains were blatantly scavenged for this*

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That needs the brains on the other side of it,
And bangs its head against it in the sun;
And groans and moans, a half-attentive beast.
The work of zombie-hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the zombies out of hiding,
To please the yelping rednecks. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at "oh shit" mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor, with the rifle, know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the zombie line
And set the wall between them and us once again.