The oncoming onslaught
Of an uncompromising prophecy
It’s clear the Mayans could not,
The creation of Christmas, forsee
We’ll all be dead in two weeks
Apparently, as it is said,
After some inscription in South America
An age, ending, some “experts” read.
They went down with pencils
Stuck by the end into mouth,
They journeyed northwards, herewards, leftwards,
Therewards, forest-wards, river-wards, then south.
Transcribing rocks, carved bits of stone,
Linking both near and very, very far,
Alien conspiracies, invasions,
Return of the great god from some star.
Then they put on monocles
And looked awful posh, right? …
They wrote, others took these writings,
And turned them into shite.
So yes, we’re all going to die,
In a few days, it is true,
Or the world at least is going to change
A great lot, so … screw you.
Or screw your neighbour, the cat
You might as well get it done,
Everything you’ve ever dreamed of doing …
Do, because the time’s almost come.
