by Mike Berger
His guttural voice was raspy and rank.
Zombie women swooned. Not just another
singer, he doubled over on several instruments.
He played a mean tuba dubbed over him playing
Backed up by a string bass and drums. The
bass had just one string and played just one
note. The hop-head drummer was always
spaced out on rotgut turpentine. He played
a glitzy set of tympanies.
Like a meteor, the trio burst on the music scene.
They played funeral dirges and A minor Russian
music to a rock and roll beat. In less than a year,
they were riding a top of zombie music charts.
They had it all, grotesque groupies and vintage
turpentine. The music business is fickle and their
star exploded and they faded away. No more gigs
the dingy dark dives. They can now be found
in clean and neat zombie clubs that only clean and
neat zombies attend.
© 2012 Mike Berger
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