My survivalist neighbors are filling a tank
with a thousand more gallons of water.
Their larder is stocked
and their pistols are cocked
while they ready themselves for the slaughter
of refugees storming their flank.
As the planet goes nuts, we’ve the Mayans to thank
for this curious, cryptic prediction
ignited by fear
that the time’s drawing near
for a massively frantic eviction
of humankind’s order and rank.
But not me. I suspect it’s a mystical prank
to determine who’s willing to borrow
from beauty and peace
here at hand for the lease
on an ever uncertain tomorrow
secured by a destitute bank.
If I had the clairvoyance to fill in the blank
on events of the future, you’d find me
in the very same way
that I live with no pressure behind me,
for worry’s a troublesome crank.