My situation is grave indeed:
Most certainly doomed,
I frantically dug until freed.
These tattered digits are strangely numb,
Why doesn’t my life blood flow?
The worms in my head
Inform me I’m dead,
As I bask in the moon’s spectral glow.
Cursed to exist, at least for the nonce
In these shambling putrid remains—
I hungrily grunt
While lidless orbs hunt
For deliciously fresh human brains.