‘Twas on a night near end of Spring
When I was asked to write a thing
Describing how the flowers bloomed
Even though humanity’s doomed.
“Roses are red“, so started my verse
“And violets are blue, unlike that hearse.”
And then I decided since I’d end up dead
To quit writing poems and play golf instead.
So wrote a lesser poet just days
Before he was eaten by the undead horde.
When apocalypse comes, I’ll struggle in ways
But never complain that, when writing, I’m bored.