(A ravenous ripoff of certain box-office movies by Hassan Abd Muthalib)
Once upon an evening dreary, watching a local movie, weak and weary,
And tortuously trying to make sense of its narrative lore,
The zombie nodded, nearly napping, suddenly waking to a screeching,
Nothing to do with the story, nothing to do with the theme.
“Tis a hokum,” muttered the zombie, “curses on the artisans –
Only this, and nothing more?!”
Ah, distinctly the zombie will remember the bleak month of March,
With seven screenings daily, the ghastly flicks wrought their gore,
Adenoid Tersepit 2 and Puting dalam Botol Samsu.
Eagerly the zombie wished their immediate end – their demise forever more.
How he longed for his compatriots – yearning for the wraiths of yore –
The denizens of Abang, Mekanik, Layar Lara and Jogho,
Evanescent for evermore.
Presently the zombie grew bold; hesitating no longer,
‘Sir,’ said he to the theatre overseer, ‘or fairy, I can’t make out who you are;
This idiocy you impose upon the populace must come to an end,
Not excluding the ringgit of twelve that I have woefully wasted.
Your immediate demise I must make haste to prevent more rot.
What is your design, giving merely this, and nothing more?”
Deep in the darkness of the night, the zombie stood, his hands gory,
Having dispatched the overseer and the writers of the gory flicks,
To an early crypt – not to mention their honcos,
For having writ and staged such carnage and sleaze.
And the only word they spake, whispered reverently, “David!”
The zombie whispered back, “Muntah darah, mah!” –
More of this and still more.
Then into the sycophant’s chamber, the zombie tottered, eyes afire (c/o CGI).
The said minion cowered behind all manner of direct-selling ware.
“Surely,” screamed he, “tis no sin to make money.”
Then coyly, said he, “Methinks, you too may, perchance,
Be desirous of an extra bit of currency.”
Thundered the zombie, “A zombie I may be, sell my realm I shall not!”
The minion, perched on a stack of DVD, shuddered, waiting for the gore.
But the miscreant, dastardly in his ways, beguiled the zombie into smiling,
How, you may ask, can a zombie be transformed into Chombie?
Fancy unto fancy, this ominous Davidian prey of yore,
His fowl eyes glittered, a maelstrom arose (with no assistance from ILM),
What meant this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and pernicious bird of woe,
When he held out a sheaf of cinema passes and croaked, "Here’s some more."
The zombie, back in the picture palace, reclined, partaking of otak-otak,
(Even a zombie can be cajoled with free tickets for a movie-lah!)
Then, he thought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Resplendent on the screen, the promise of sagacity.
The zombie sat bolt upright, hollow eyes transfixed to the screen -
”Bunohan!,” he cried, "God hath lent thee —
By these angels he hath sent thee!
Respite — respite from the detritus created, espoused and displayed thus far;
Let me quaff this kind nepenthe and forget all the horror - !"
Screamed the zombie, “- ever more!"
(With apologies to Edgar Allen Poe and his incomparable, THE RAVEN)
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