Frothing and foaming,
His jaws chomp the hand he holds.
He'll chew your windpipe
If it's left exposed.
He's sensate but has no soul.

Frothing and foaming,
He was buried, out of site.
Now there's no repose;
Laz'rus-like he rose
When he came to "life" one night.

You must recall the magic
That will stop or bring him down:
Stake in the heart? Silver bullet?
Crucifix? Or garlic crown?

Frothing and foaming,
He's not alive exactly.
He's undead; by day
He will skulk away.
But at night he's out to eat.

Chompety-chomp-chomp,
Chompety-chomp-chomp,
Loves to nosh a toe.
Chompety-chomp-chomp,
Chompety-chomp-chomp,
Opens a femur bone.

Froth in the gloaming,
That is when he'll salivate
And chew on your buns.
He must shun the sun
Or else he will melt away.

Chows down the village,
With a "drumstick" in his hand.
Underneath your hair's
Where he'll seek his fare—
He'll try to snatch your brainpan.

He's fed, yet now he wants more chow,
Like a traffic-cop chop.
And with his paws in innards,
Once he starts he cannot stop.

You'd better hurry, or you will be his paté.
He'll take a good bite
And won't be contrite.
You're a snack in the buffet.

Yummy-yum-yum-yum,
Yummy-yum-yum-yum.
"Look, you, frothing's gauche!"
Sputum-um-um-um,
Sputum-um-um-um.
"Where's your Emily Post?!"