The world ends today
On Sunday, the eighth of May.
Should I let them know?
Would it spoil their day?
Would they just get up
And walk away?
No, no, that won't do.
The hours left are just a few!
Tans would be ruined.
The beer would get warm.
What bad taste.
Such poor form.
The azure sea, the cerulean sky,
Would curse a man as heartless as I.
May 1988
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem