Wait for it, the foretold End of the World:
The Apocalypse, the Armageddon.
Yonder it looms, the predicted Dooms Day.

It could be, it just might; sure looks like it.
If it is and it's too late to fix it...

Scurry underground and bolt your door tight.
Line your shelves full with canned peas and Spam.
Grab your sterno, load your assault rifle.
Check over your shoulder; what's that? who's that?


Sell all your possessions; sell all your stuff.
Flock with like minds, ready to ascend.
Wait for entrance to that exclusive club.
Revel in your superiority.


Gather around your television set.
Watch the news till there's nothing but static.
Look out the window to see if it comes.
Then cry and weep and make pitiful moans.


Just don't believe it; deny it will come.
Go about your business with your eyes shut.
But even then, peek occasionally
To make sure it isn't really happ'ning.


Find a beautiful view, a lovely sight.
Fill your ears with music, your bag with weed.
Wait for the end coming, but let it go.
And keep on your face a fat crooked smile.

As for the world: if it could indeed wait,
It might have been waiting for this moment
When we finally screwed it up big time.
Then it would perhaps give a little sigh.

Harry W. Yeatts Jr.