The planet ricochets to prophets’ chants
and I am forced to only half-mistrust
what Nostradamus fished from out his trance
and revelations bishops have discussed.
Does everybody think they’ve got it sussed,
shrugging with dismissive looks askance?
And worst of all, as this would be unjust,
what if the world expires before my chance?
What if someone has a tiff with France
and coats it in fluorescent sickly dust
or buries Greece without a second glance
before I’ve taken all your crap and thrust
it back up all your backsides in disgust,
before I’ve tripwired your robotic dance
so, from the floor, you sit and stare and rust?
What if the world expires before my chance?
What if humanity’s vainglorious prance
is sucked so free of substance that it just
collapses like a boil beneath a lance,
collapses in the nuclear-wintry gust,
before I’ve hacked to shreds, as hack I must,
the smug remarks, the nevers and the can’ts
you thought would push me to declaring bust?
What if the world expires before my chance?
Prince or politician, I’m not fussed,
you’re all as dead as love and Martian plants.
But I won’t lie here bleeding and concussed.
What if the world expires before my chance?
