The Devil Wears Prada

I am one of the last few standing, a survivor on a farm,
Just along the outskirts of a small city.
Like most that have made it this far,
I live off of old canned goods and a healthy back stock of ammunition.
Greetings from extermination, Kansas - death in the midwest.
Greetings from extermination, Kansas - death in the midwest.
Even with the godless reaching my property every few days, I am tortured by solitude.
The whispering of the cornfields haunt me like the moans of my undead enemies.
My depression grows stronger: its bitter claws around my neck.
I will always be tortured... tortured by solitude.
Will anything get better for me?
I have watched the world die, all I know now is regret.
Will this sickness ever leave this world?