Back from the grave, down to the pub They always, always come back They crave for a brew to wash down your brains An eight percent grey matter sludge
Made from beer and brains Doubles of mortal remains Drain the dregs Zombies will empty the kegs
They eat the living but drink their tins Fermenting in the kegs the army kept them in Watch your beers, the zombies are about They're being touchy-feely and staring at your brain
Bent for the rent for another pint of that shit They piss all over the offy floor So I sold my soul for a tray of terror tins A graveyard booze-up tonight
Wake up at six, struck by beer cancer Time for a puke out my ass (and a good cry) Zombie party wrecked my flat I'll piss in the graveyard tonight