Beneath the cloudy glow, where fuel pumps hum and shadows dance slow, A small horde stirs, their hunger unyielding, Petrol station zombies, tireless and revealing.
Their eyes aglow with ethereal fire, They shuffle toward the pumps, their sole desire, To feast upon fumes, to sip gasoline, Their undead souls bound to this eerie scene.
With fingers like rusted keys, they fumble, Clumsy and relentless, they grumble, Their hollow chests wheeze, their breaths erratic, As they slurp from hoses, their thirst ecstatic.
And oh, the attendants! Oblivious and drowsy, They wipe smudged windows, their minds hazy, Unaware that the undead queue grows longer, As petrol station zombies sip, thirst stronger.
But fear not, dear traveler, for dawn approaches, And these spectral fiends retreat to their coaches, Back into the shadows, their hunger sated, Until the next moonrise, when they’re reactivated.
So if you pass a lonely station at midnight’s hour, Listen closely—you might hear their spectral power, The slurping, the shuffling, the faint undead moan, Petrol station zombies, forever in twilight’s zone.