Here they go; the talkin’ corpses.

Whispering their asses off again.

Wanting to move their lips, and to do a thing.

To make the living hear them speak.

The soul ceases to be.

For talkin’ corpses talk and talk.

Diarrhea of the mouth, as they say.

The flapping lips of corpses.

And all they do is blame and blame; them, they, you.

For letting them die.

Like getting drunk and trying to sleep after its worn off; corpses are talking, nonstop.

Trying to get you to listen!

To hear them speak.

Flappin- gum dead bodies, flapping it off.

And soldiers, dead and on the ground of course, flap their gums reciting their oaths.

Those silly swingin’ willies.

They flap off oaths.

Who will burry their souls?

For the soul is an intangible restless beast.

Still looking to instruct the living, on ways to overcome their defeat.