This is a story of survival, to the tune of Grandma’s Feather Bed.
When I was a little bitty boy, just before the war,
We used to live in my Grandma’s house, cosiest place you saw.
Had chickens, cows and apple trees, and loads of ammo in the shed
But the best darn thing about Grandma’s house was Grandma’s severed head.
She was six foot tall before she died, built like an army truck,
With a face like a bull and maybe seven teeth, and a whole lot o’ gore where she stuck
On a high stone wall that faced the road, she stared on the walking dead:
Didn’t get much mail but the ghouls stayed away from Grandma’s severed head!
After dusk we’d stand around the fire, on watch for an hour or two
Pa would polish up his guns and his knives, Ma would serve a nourishing stew
And I’d crouch and listen and watch the road with the scopes on infrared
Best thing I know was shootin’ at the freaks from the hollow by the old severed head!
Well I’ll kill your Ma, I’ll kill your Pa, kill Granny and Grandpa too
If your clan’s infected, they’ll be detected, I guess I’ll just kill you…
But if you reckon you’re scared of me, I guess it ought to be said,
There’s none can chill every ghoul on the road like Grandma’s severed head.
If they still had blood, it’d sure run cold at Grandma’s severed head!