[Image credits: Amarildo]

One normal day with an old friend of mine,

We debated sitting on the grass, feeling fine.

Then suddenly the air turned chilly and grim,

I thought “A storm is about to roll in.”

There was a man just standing, staring hard,

Giving off tension, like a yellow card.

He wore a robe, like Plato in tone,

So I grabbed a stick and cracked his dome.

My friend froze up, shaking in fright,

His legs were trembling, pale as the moon at night.

He cried “Murderer!” pointing at me,

Then Democritus came: same fate, you see.

I explained it all, he understood,

Then I asked him straight, like anyone would:

“What would you do if one day you found

Zombie philosophers roaming around?”

Shut up, please, just stop, enough,

This makes no sense, it’s getting too rough.

Don’t talk to that philosopher, he’s dead, can’t you tell?

Grab a cloak, I’ll take one as well.

Call your grandpa, ask if he wouldn’t mind

Lend us a hammer, a saw, a crowbar, or something of that kind.

What a damn mess, I check the numbers in my phone,

Thinking of someone to lend me anything that could crack a dome

Maybe a mower to slice all around,

Cut off the hands that claw from underground.

And stop! Better quit or I’ll go into shock.

Shoo away Schopenhauer, just walk!

With a pickaxe on Wittgenstein’s brain,

Man, Hobbes and Locke are both a pain.

What’s a zombie? Yeah, you know:

Living dead at sunset’s glow.

Stay alert, my hesitant friend,

This conversation might never end.

Did you know that God is dead?

Or at least that’s what Nietzsche said.

Did you know Christ rose again?

Or so God claims now and then.

Did you know Nietzsche is gone?

Can’t you see God’s smiling on?

Did you know Nietzsche came back too?

Or at least that’s what I tell you.

It’s an endless zombie return,

Undead apocalypse as the city burns.

On the streets, a war ignites,

Load the shotguns, brace for fights.

That mad Hypatia’s in a wrath,

Throwing knives across the path.

But I grab a corpse off the ground,

Use it as shield while blows resound:

Good old Machiavelli’s my guard,

Taking hits while I fight hard.

It’s my damn problem if Botero’s there,

With Pythagoreans and Galileo’s glare.

Aristotle laughs with Epicurus too,

Feels like they’re all just mocking you.

How many saints are chasing me now?

Caught Pythagoras mid-orgy somehow.

Seneca’s coming, closing in to the clash,

Gorgias and Protagoras, as I hack and slash.

I bought gasoline, to be safe and sound,

Lit up the agora, flames all around.

With Guénon, Evola, and zombies galore,

I cook them alla Diavola in a fiery war.

Enough, please stop, I beg you, it’s best,

‘Cause this makes no sense, give me some rest.

If a dead philosopher asks you for cash,

Do you answer him… or make a dash?

In the end I looked at my friend,

He was pale, shocked to no end.

Then I realised why he’d been scared,

So I asked him gently, slightly impaired:

“Friedrich… what’s up?”

It’s time to wrap up:

Friedrich, now you also became an undead

And this revelation now marks the end.