Whan The Final Sun Comes Poem by Stan Petrovich

When the last srteaks of the glorious
Red-bloated sun envelop the earth,
All is forgotten:
The bluebell patterns on simple skirts,
The porcelan china baked in the fround;
Sexual normakcy, deviant sexuality,
Walk-off grand slams,
Monsters beheading monsters'.
Contrarily the best of charity
Ever conceived, man unto man,
Woman unto woman; we to animals:
All lives forever.

Is there nothing to follow?
Debates among the sage still rage.
I prefer a compendium of All,
Of All likes and dislakes,
A new ball
Stuck in a distant galaxy'
As yet unnamed.
As yet unwarranted.