THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH! called the man
As he paced with his sign up the street
He’s been saying that now, for seventeen years
He’s beginning to look a bit beat
But the twenty-first day of December
Could give him the wonderful high
For doomsday is here and four horsemen
might ride through the lightening streaked sky
But ‘til then, he will shout out his message
And chew on an old piece of gum
As walks up the Christmas full high street
Still talking from out of his bum
For the hours will roll on without ending
And the sun will still rise into sight
But he’ll shout out his message again and again
In the hope that he might get it right
But the weekend will see him downhearted
Yet we know that we’ll still hear him cry
But maybe he’ll be a bit grumpy
THE END OF THE WORLD IS… sigh…
YOU ARE READING
The Tree of Dreams
PoetryRandom poetry and the occasional drabble or dribble of other short random thought from the depths my somewhat bemused brain, or possibly Brian if the schizophrenic misspelt pseudo entity that lives up there is up to his old tricks... poems from the...
