*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.