On July the twenty-fourth
nineteen-ninety-nine,
the world will end.
If not then,
then certainly in the year two-thousand,
when the New Age dawns.
All from all time will have to account
for their behaviour, and will be judged
according to their ability.
So only the dull will enter,
the gates of the Abattoir,
and become Angel fodder.
Time and Space, here and then
will be gone as if,
as if,
they were only
ripples on the divine mind
But for George and Tim,
and Mary and Louise,
the World ended in 1998,
when they died,
from cars or cancer.
It’s no big deal,
the end of the World,
just another statistic,
but no-one there,
to record it.